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kpoplustzone · 1 month ago

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Wedding Fuck - KIM YOO JUNG SMUT

OC X KIM YOO JUNG

From Kofi archive

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Yoojung sat perched on the edge of a vanity stool, the weight of the pristine white dress a tangible presence around her. The mirror reflected an image she barely recognized, a woman on the precipice of a monumental life change. The gown, a masterpiece of delicate lace and flowing silk, dipped daringly low in the front, offering a generous view of the gentle curves of her breasts and the alluring valley of her cleavage. Her fingers traced the intricate embroidery along the neckline, the cool silk starkly contrasting with the sudden heat that flushed her skin.

She remembered watching Jiwoo's joyful video earlier, the unbridled happiness radiating from her friend. A faint smile touched Yoojung's lips, a genuine warmth for Jiwoo mingled with that persistent pang of longing for her fairytale. Today, however, the fairytale was supposed to be hers. She was marrying Kang Hyun-woo, a charming and successful businessman who, on paper, was everything she had ever wanted.

The photographer's gaze lingered a moment longer than professional courtesy demanded, his eyes, a touch too hungry, tracing the curve of Yoojung's exposed cleavage where the delicate lace of the bodice barely contained her full breasts. He swallowed subtly, the movement betraying his captivated attention.

As Yoojung stood, the wedding dress satin stretched taut across her abdomen and hips, emphasizing the sleek, toned lines of her figure. The fabric clung to her like a lover's embrace, revealing the firm swell of her backside with each graceful step. The low-cut neckline plunged deep, offering an enticing glimpse down the shadowed crevice between her ample breasts, a view that undoubtedly made the photographer's job more… engaging. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her skin, a silent, appreciative appraisal that went beyond simply capturing the perfect shot. It was a gaze that stripped away the layers of the bridal gown, seeing the desirable woman beneath

Yoojung composed herself, a practiced smile gracing her lips as she prepared to strike a pose. "Ready when you are," she said, her voice carrying a professional lilt. The cameraman adjusted his focus, then reached up and slowly removed the black face mask he had been wearing.

A shock, sharp and sudden as an electric jolt, ripped through Yoojung. Her smile faltered, her breath catching in her throat. Standing opposite her, holding the expensive camera with a disconcerting air of nonchalance, was Min-jae – her ex-boyfriend.

Her mind reeled, a chaotic whirlwind of disbelief and resurfacing pain. Min-jae. The man whose betrayal had left her heartbroken and questioning her judgment. It felt like a cruel twist of fate, a scene ripped from a poorly written drama.

Her thoughts flashed back to those painful months, the unraveling of their once seemingly perfect relationship. It had started with small, almost insignificant inconsistencies – late nights at work that stretched into the early hours of the morning, hushed phone calls he’d take outside, a vague defensiveness that had never been there before. Yoojung had initially brushed them aside, trusting him, wanting to believe in their love.

But the whispers had started soon after, insidious little seeds of doubt planted by mutual acquaintances. They spoke of Min-jae being seen with other women – a junior colleague from his office, a striking model at a club, even a former classmate he’d reconnected with. Each rumour was a tiny pinprick, slowly deflating the balloon of her happiness.

The final confirmation had come like a brutal punch to the gut. A friend, utterly mortified, had sent her a series of blurry photos taken late one night at a secluded restaurant. Min-jae, his arm wrapped intimately around a woman who was not her, their faces inches apart, a tender smile on his lips that Yoojung had once believed was solely for her. There were more photos – him leaving the restaurant with the same woman, their hands intertwined.

The world had tilted on its axis. The man she had loved, the man she had envisioned a future with, had been systematically betraying her, not just once, but seemingly with multiple women. The photos were undeniable, the truth a bitter pill she was forced to swallow.

The confrontation had been messy, filled with her tearful accusations and his pathetic denials that quickly crumbled under the weight of evidence. He’d tried to gaslight her, to twist the narrative, but Yoojung, fueled by the raw agony of betrayal, had seen through his lies. The breakup had been swift and decisive. She had cut him out of her life, the pain a constant ache that had slowly, painstakingly begun to heal over time.

Now, here he was, standing a few feet away, his presence a ghost from her past resurrected on the most important day of her life. The audacity of it stunned her, the shock momentarily eclipsing everything else. Her carefully constructed composure threatened to shatter. What was he doing here? Had he known? Was this some kind of twisted game? Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden silence that had fallen in the room.

Yoojung found her voice, though it was a strained whisper, barely audible above the hushed preparations around them. “Min-jae? What… what are you doing here?” Her eyes narrowed, suspicion clouding the initial shock.

Min-jae offered a slow, almost arrogant smile, the same one that used to make her heart flutter with excitement, now twisting in her stomach with a bitter resentment. “Surprised to see me, Yoojung-ah?” His gaze swept over her, lingering pointedly on the low-cut neckline of her dress. “You look stunning. Truly… a vision.” There was a husky quality to his voice, a familiar tone that used to precede stolen kisses and whispered intimacies.

Yoojung’s fists clenched beneath the folds of her dress. “That doesn’t answer my question, Min-jae. You have no right to be here, at my wedding.”

He chuckled softly, adjusting his camera lens with a deliberate slowness. “Oh, but I do. The happy couple hired me, or rather, the wedding planner did. My portfolio speaks for itself. Though” his eyes flickered down her body again, a predatory glint in their depths, “nothing in my portfolio has ever captured a subject as… exquisitely tempting as you look right now, all trussed up in white, ready to be claimed.”

A wave of nausea mixed with a perverse thrill washed over Yoojung. His audacity was infuriating, yet his words, laced with that familiar seductive undertone, stirred a long-dormant ache within her. “Get out,” she hissed, her voice trembling slightly. “Leave, before I make a scene.”

Min-jae took a step closer, his eyes locked on hers, the camera now resting against his chest. “Make a scene, Yoojung? On your wedding day? Would your handsome groom appreciate the drama? Or perhaps… he wouldn’t mind a little reminder of what he’s about to possess? This dress… it barely hides anything, does it? All that soft skin, those perfect curves… I remember them well.” His gaze dropped again to her cleavage, and Yoojung felt a flush creep up her neck. He knew exactly how to get under her skin, even after all this time.

Before Yoojung could formulate a sharp retort or demand Min-jae’s immediate removal, the door to the room swung open and a flurry of excited voices filled the air. Her bridesmaids, close friends from her school days, rushed in to shower her with last-minute well wishes and exclamations of admiration.

“Yoojung-ah! You look breathtaking!” exclaimed one, Hyeri, her eyes wide with genuine delight.

“Like a goddess!” another, Soo-jin, chimed in, rushing forward to give Yoojung a tight hug.

Min-jae, with the swiftness of someone practiced in evasion, immediately turned his back and pretended to busy himself with his equipment, his face now conveniently obscured by his camera and a raised hand as if adjusting something. Yoojung’s heart hammered in her chest. She couldn’t risk her friends seeing him, not now, not before the ceremony.

“Oh my gosh, let’s take some pictures!” Hyeri suggested, pulling out her phone. The bridesmaids gathered around Yoojung, their bright smiles a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within her. For the sake of appearances, Yoojung plastered on her most radiant smile. Min-jae, still facing away, subtly adjusted his position as if capturing the scene with his professional lens, his silence going unnoticed in the cheerful commotion.

After a flurry of phone snapshots and excited chatter about the upcoming ceremony, the bridesmaids, mindful of the time, gave Yoojung one last round of hugs. “We’ll see you at the altar, our beautiful bride!” Soo-jin called out as they made their way towards the door. “Everything’s going to be perfect!”

As the door clicked shut behind them, a heavy silence descended upon the room once more, the earlier joyful atmosphere now replaced by a palpable tension. Yoojung’s smile vanished, her gaze immediately snapping back to the man who was slowly turning to face her, the mask now discarded on a nearby table.

Min-jae closed the distance between them, his eyes slowly raking over Yoojung from the delicate veil adorning her hair down to the intricate lace at the hem of her gown. He stopped mere inches away, his gaze lingering on the deep V-neck of her dress. “You look… different,” he murmured, his voice a low, husky whisper. “So pure, so… untouched. Almost makes me forget all the nights that dress wouldn’t have lasted five seconds on that body of yours.”

His eyes flickered up to meet hers, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “This pristine white… a far cry from the way it would be stained after a night with me, wouldn’t you say?” He let his gaze drift down again, imagining, no doubt, the marks he used to leave on her skin. “That perfect skin… I remember how it would flush under my touch, the little shivers that would run through you when I just grazed your thigh.”

He lifted his hand slowly, his knuckles lightly brushing against the side of his neck, mimicking a caress, and his eyes locked with Yoojung’s. “And this… this would be slick with your saliva, your nails digging in as I…” He let the sentence hang in the air, the unfinished words painting a vivid picture of their past intimacy.

Yoojung’s breath caught in her throat. Despite the anger and resentment she felt towards him, a wave of unwanted memories flooded her mind. The feel of his hands on her skin, the taste of his lips, the way her body would indeed tremble and ache with a desperate need for his touch. A shiver traced its way down her spine, a physical manifestation of the memories that his words had so crudely resurrected. Her carefully constructed composure began to crack, a flicker of something other than anger – a confusing mix of longing and revulsion – flickering in her eyes. Her own hands, still clasped tightly in front of her, betrayed her inner turmoil, the knuckles white against the delicate lace of her gloves

Min-jae moved with a predatory grace, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet as he circled behind Yoojung. He stopped directly behind her, his body so close she could feel the warmth radiating from him, even through the layers of her wedding gown. He leaned in, his breath warm against the delicate skin of her neck, just below her ear where he knew she was most sensitive.

“Remember this, Yoojung-ah?” he rasped, his voice thick with a possessive hunger. “The way my breath used to make you shiver? This exact spot… begging for my lips, my teeth.” His hands, no longer holding the camera, now hovered inches from her waist, his fingers twitching with anticipation.

“This dress,” he continued, his voice a low purr, his gaze tracing the line of her spine visible through the fabric, “it’s beautiful, truly. But all I can think about is tearing it off you, piece by piece, just like I used to, remember? That frantic desperation to feel my skin against yours.” His hands finally made contact, his fingers splaying across her waist, pulling her back just a fraction against his hardening body. Yoojung’s breath hitched, a gasp escaping her lips despite her attempts to remain composed.

He lowered his head further, his lips nuzzling the delicate curve of her ear. “And down here…” His fingers subtly tightened on her hips, pressing her against the growing bulge in his trousers. “This is where you’d be pressed against me, slick and begging for my cock. That little wetness that would bloom between your legs just thinking about me… I can almost feel it now, can’t you?” His words, raw and explicit, painted a vivid picture of their past encounters, a stark contrast to the virginal white of her wedding dress.

Yoojung’s body betrayed her, a tremor running through her despite her anger. Her thighs instinctively clenched, a familiar heat pooling low in her belly. The memories, so carefully suppressed, surged back with a visceral intensity – the way her body used to crave his touch, the almost shameful eagerness with which she would surrender to his desires. He knew her so well, every nerve ending, every secret pleasure point. And with just a few words, a few carefully placed touches, he was unraveling her, right here, moments before she was supposed to pledge herself to another man.

Yoojung tried to stiffen, to pull away from the intoxicating closeness of him, but her resistance felt weak, almost perfunctory, like a swimmer caught in a strong current. “Min-jae… stop it,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper, betraying more breathlessness than command.

He chuckled softly, his lips still close to her ear. “Stop? When you know you want this, Yoojung-ah? When your body is already remembering every touch?” His hands moved from her hips, sliding up her back, his fingers tracing the delicate boning of her corset. He paused just below the neckline of her dress, his fingertips hovering tantalizingly just above the swell of her breasts, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, his hand slipped beneath the low-cut edge of her dress. His fingers, warm and knowing, slid down the creamy skin of her chest, settling right in the deep valley between her ample breasts. He could feel the soft, yielding flesh beneath his touch, the heat radiating from her skin. Yoojung gasped, her eyes fluttering closed, a shiver running through her entire frame.

Min-jae slowly turned Yoojung around, his hands sliding from her cleavage to grip her waist, pulling her close until their bodies were almost touching. Their eyes locked for a tense moment, a silent battle raging between anger, resentment, and a resurfacing desire. Then, his gaze dropped to her lips, full and slightly parted, and a familiar hunger flickered in his eyes.

He lowered his head, his lips brushing against hers tentatively at first, then pressing harder, a demanding kiss that sent a jolt of unwanted pleasure through Yoojung. His mouth moved over hers with a practiced familiarity, a dance they had performed countless times before. Memories of their passionate embraces flooded her senses, momentarily overriding her present circumstances.

His hands, still possessive, remained on her breasts, his thumbs pressing into the soft fabric of her wedding dress, directly over her nipples. He could feel them harden instantly beneath his touch, a silent confirmation of her body’s treacherous response to him. The pressure was firm, almost bruising, yet a thrill shot through Yoojung, a stark reminder of the raw, unfiltered desire he used to ignite within her. The delicate lace and satin of her bridal gown felt like nothing, a mere barrier to the intimate connection his touch was re-establishing.

Min-jae’s kiss deepened, his lips parting hers, his tongue slipping inside to explore the warm, wet cavern of her mouth. It was a familiar invasion, a taste that still lingered in her memory, both sweet and forbidden. Yoojung found herself momentarily lost in the sensation, her body responding with a treacherous familiarity, her tongue hesitantly meeting his.

His hands on her breasts tightened, his fingers kneading through the layers of satin and lace, finding the sensitive tips and teasing them with a rhythmic motion. Yoojung gasped into the kiss, a low moan escaping her throat that she tried to suppress.

Min-jae broke the kiss, his breath hot against her flushed cheek. “You still taste the same, Yoojung-ah,” he rasped, his eyes dark with lust. “Like pure sin and everything I shouldn’t want… but crave anyway.” His hands slid further down her chest, spreading out over the soft mounds of her breasts, his thumbs now rubbing insistently against her already hard nipples. He could feel the frantic beat of her heart beneath his palms.

“This dress…” he murmured, his fingers tracing the outline of her areolae through the fabric, “it’s supposed to be for your husband, isn’t it? Imagine his surprise if he knew what had already happened in it… the way my hands are all over you, remembering every inch.” He leaned closer, his lips finding her ear again. “Tell me, Yoojung, are you as wet for me now as you used to get just from my whispers?”

The dam of Yoojung's resistance finally broke. His words, his touch, the raw familiarity of his desire had chipped away at her anger until only a desperate yearning remained. With a soft groan, she surrendered to the kiss, her lips parting wider, her tongue meeting his with a fervor that matched his own. The carefully constructed image of the poised bride shattered, replaced by the passionate woman he remembered so well.

Her hands, which had been clenched tightly moments ago, now roamed freely over his body. She clutched at the fabric of his shirt, bunching it in her fists as she pulled him closer, her body pressing against his through the layers of her wedding gown. Her fingers then traced the hard contours of his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart mirroring her own frantic rhythm.

Min-jae broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes, burning with undisguised lust, dropped to the neckline of Yoojung's dress. With a swift, practiced movement, his fingers fumbled with the delicate clasps at the back of the bodice. The low-cut front loosened further, and with a final tug, the fabric parted, revealing the full glory of Yoojung's ample breasts. They spilled out from the confines of the dress, their weight and fullness momentarily taking his breath away, the already hardened nipples now fully exposed and begging for his touch.

Min-jae’s lips left hers, trailing a line of wet kisses down her jawline to the sensitive hollow of her throat. He lingered there, sucking gently on her skin, and Yoojung’s head fell back, a soft moan escaping her lips. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer.

“Remember how much you loved this?” he whispered against her skin, his breath hot and moist. “My mouth on your neck, your body trembling like a leaf?” He lifted his head slightly, his eyes locking with hers, a knowing smirk on his face.

Then, his gaze dropped to her exposed breasts, his expression softening with a raw desire. Slowly, reverently, he reached out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of her left breast. The skin was soft and warm, and her nipple was already erect, a hard little bud begging for attention. He brushed his thumb across it lightly, and Yoojung gasped, a shiver running down her spine.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “Just as I remember. Big and full, wanting to be touched, wanting my mouth all over them.” His other hand joined the first, and he cupped both her breasts, savoring their weight in his palms. He began to knead them gently, his thumbs circling her nipples, teasing and taunting them.

Yoojung’s breath came in short, shallow gasps. The feel of his hands on her bare skin, after the initial shock, was igniting a familiar fire within her. She closed her eyes, the wedding dress feeling like a ridiculous costume in this moment of raw, resurfacing passion.

“Tell me what you want,” Min-jae whispered, his lips hovering over her right breast, his warm breath caressing her nipple. “Tell me you want me to taste you, just like I used to.” His fingers tightened slightly on her other breast, and Yoojung’s hips shifted instinctively, a silent plea.

A soft whimper escaped her lips. “Min-jae…” she breathed, her voice laced with a mixture of longing and shame.

He didn’t wait for her to finish. His mouth closed over her nipple, sucking gently at first, then with more intensity. Yoojung’s back arched, and a moan of pure pleasure ripped from her throat. Her hands, still entangled in his hair, pulled him closer, wanting more of the sensation that was flooding her senses

His other hand, no longer content with simply cupping her breast, slipped beneath the fabric of her dress, finding the bare skin beneath. His fingers traced the curve of her ribs, then moved lower, inching towards her waist, feeling the subtle tremor that ran through her body with every touch. The contrast between the smooth, exposed skin of her upper body and the restrictive layers of the wedding gown below only heightened the illicit thrill of their encounter.

Min-jae’s suction on her nipple intensified, and Yoojung cried out, her body arching involuntarily. He switched his attention to her other breast, his mouth now latching onto that eager peak, his tongue flicking and swirling around the sensitive nub, drawing out a series of escalating moans from her. His hands worked her flesh relentlessly, squeezing, kneading, and teasing, as if rediscovering every familiar contour.

“Tell me you remember how good this feels, Yoojung-ah,” he murmured between frantic sucks on her breast. “Tell me you’ve missed my mouth on your body, driving you wild like this.”

Yoojung’s head lolled back, her eyes half-closed, her senses overwhelmed by the sensations he was so expertly evoking. “Yes… Min-jae… yes,” she gasped, her voice barely audible. Her hands, no longer hesitant, were now clawing at his back, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as she pulled him closer, desperate for more.

His hand that had been exploring her waist now dipped lower, his fingertips brushing against the top of the delicate fabric of her bridal undergarments. He lingered there for a torturous moment, feeling the dampness that had already begun to bloom. A knowing smirk touched his lips against her breast. “Just like I remembered,” he whispered, his voice thick with triumph. “So eager for me, even in this ridiculous dress for another man.”

He pulled back slightly, his eyes locking with hers, their depths swirling with a potent mix of lust and a complicated history. He reached down and gently lifted the hem of her wedding dress, his gaze lingering on the expanse of her bare legs revealed beneath. The pristine white of the fabric against her flushed skin created a stark and undeniably erotic contrast. His fingers trailed up her thigh, sending shivers racing through her, until he reached the lace trim of her panties, already soaked with her arousal.

Min-jae’s fingers slipped beneath the lacy elastic of her panties. With a slow, deliberate tug, he slid them down her thighs, the soft fabric bunching at her ankles before falling silently to the floor. Yoojung shivered, the sudden absence of the delicate barrier intensifying the heat that had already taken root between her legs. The cool air against her slick skin only heightened her arousal.

Keeping the front of her wedding dress lifted just enough, Min-jae’s hand returned to the core of her being. His fingers, still slightly damp from touching her breasts, now traced the swollen lips of her already soaking wet vagina. Yoojung gasped, her thighs parting instinctively, offering him greater access. He pressed a finger gently into the slick crevice, feeling her muscles clench around him.

“So wet for me, even now,” he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction. He began to stroke her slowly, his finger gliding along the sensitive folds, teasing and tantalizing. Yoojung’s head fell back against the wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her hips began to rock almost involuntarily, pressing against his exploring fingers, seeking deeper contact.

He then traced a line down from her swollen clitoris, feeling its hard bead beneath his touch, down through the slickness to the opening of her eager channel. He lingered there for a moment, pressing gently, before sliding his fingers further inside, one then two, stretching her, filling her. Yoojung cried out, a high-pitched moan that echoed in the room, her body arching off the wall as his fingers began to move within her, mimicking the rhythm of their past intimacies.

Just as Min-jae’s fingers delved deeper, a sharp, insistent knock echoed from the door, followed by a familiar voice calling out, “Yoojung? Everything alright in there, honey? I just wanted to check on you before the ceremony.”

Yoojung’s eyes widened in sheer panic, her breath catching in her throat. It was Hyun-woo, her groom. With a strangled gasp, she grabbed Min-jae’s arm, her grip like a vise, and frantically pulled him towards the far side of the dressing room. A row of full-length dresses, still in their protective coverings, offered a last-minute shield.

They stumbled behind the hanging garments, the rustling of fabric momentarily masking their movements. Yoojung pressed herself against the wall, her head just barely visible above the tops of the dresses. Min-jae, with a knowing smirk playing on his lips despite the precarious situation, crouched down out of sight, his gaze now level with the exposed lower half of her body.

The situation was undeniably compromising, and the visual from Min-jae's vantage point was a chaotic tableau of illicit desire against the backdrop of impending matrimony. Yoojung’s wedding gown was hiked up around her hips, revealing her bare, flushed buttocks. Below, his fingers were still slick with her arousal. Above, the bodice of her dress had been pulled down, and her full breasts spilled out over the lace, their nipples still taut and sensitive from his touch. The contrast between her bridal attire and her utterly exposed state was a potent and undeniably erotic sight for the hidden photographer.

Hyun-woo stepped into the dressing room, his voice warm and filled with anticipation. He spotted Yoojung’s head peeking out from behind the row of gowns and chuckled softly. “There you are, my beautiful bride. Almost ready?” He didn’t venture further into the room, respecting her privacy as he assumed she was still in the final stages of dressing. He leaned against the doorframe, a fond smile on his face. “I just wanted to tell you that you look absolutely radiant, even from this little glimpse I can see.”

While Hyun-woo’s attention was fixed on Yoojung’s face and his words filled the air, Min-jae, hidden from view, took the opportunity. His hands, still slick from Yoojung’s arousal, moved with a practiced stealth. He gently spread her bare buttocks apart, his fingers sliding into the warm, wet crevice of her vagina from behind. Yoojung gasped softly, the unexpected intrusion sending a shiver of both shock and a perverse thrill through her. She bit her lip hard, trying to suppress any outward reaction.

Hyun-woo continued, oblivious to the secret drama unfolding just behind the dresses. “I can’t wait to see you walk down the aisle. It feels like a dream. Are you nervous?”

Min-jae’s fingers inside Yoojung began to move slowly, mimicking the rhythm of their earlier encounter. Yoojung’s thighs clenched involuntarily, and a bead of sweat trickled down her temple. She tried to focus on Hyun-woo’s voice, forcing a smile to her lips that he could see. “A little,” she managed, her voice slightly breathier than she intended. “Just… excited.”

Min-jae’s middle finger found her sensitive spot, pressing gently, and Yoojung’s eyes flickered shut for a fleeting moment. She had to keep it together, for Hyun-woo's sake, for her own wedding. But the secret, forbidden pleasure Min-jae was so expertly delivering just inches away was making it agonizingly difficult.

Yoojung risked a quick, surreptitious peek down the row of dresses. Her body was angled slightly as she leaned forward a touch to keep her conversation with Hyun-woo sounding natural, a subtle adjustment that unintentionally offered Min-jae a more intimate view. The lifted hem of her gown, combined with her slight bend, now showcased the glistening wetness between her legs in the soft light filtering through the dressing room. Her exposed breasts, freed from the tight bodice, swayed gently with her movement, the nipples still visibly erect.

Hyun-woo continued to chat, his voice full of the sweet anticipation of their wedding. "I can't wait for you to finally be my wife, Yoojung. It feels like we've been waiting forever."

Behind the dresses, Min-jae's fingers continued their slow, deliberate strokes, his gaze now feasting on the unobstructed view. He could see the delicate folds of her vagina, glistening with her arousal, the creamy inner lips slightly parted

As if an invisible string had pulled her forward, Yoojung subtly bent down to adjust the hem of one of the dresses, her action conveniently placing her backside directly in Min-jae’s line of sight. The slight downward tilt offered him an even more explicit view of her glistening opening, practically begging for his touch. He didn’t hesitate.

With a swift, silent motion, Min-jae unfastened his trousers and freed his thick, engorged penis. The air thrummed with a charged anticipation as he positioned himself behind her, the head of his cock pressing against her wet folds. With a soft groan that he barely managed to suppress, he thrust forward, his length sliding deep inside her eager body.

Yoojung shuddered violently, a gasp escaping her lips that she quickly muffled with a cough. It had been so long since she had felt his thick shaft filling her, stretching her in that familiar, intensely pleasurable way. Her muscles clenched instinctively around him, her body instantly recognizing and welcoming the long-missed sensation. A deep, primal moan threatened to erupt from her throat, a sound that spoke of a thirst finally being quenched

Just a little nervous about saying the right vows," Yoojung said to Hyun-woo, her voice a carefully controlled tremble. Behind her, Min-jae thrust deeper, the head of his cock bumping against a spot that sent a wave of intense pleasure through her. Vows... yeah, the only vows I'm thinking about right now are the ones my body is screaming to Min-jae.

"Oh, don't worry, my love," Hyun-woo replied reassuringly from the other side of the dresses. "You'll be perfect. You always are."

Min-jae’s hands, which had been gripping her hips to steady himself, now began to squeeze and knead her buttocks, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Perfectly tight,” he whispered close to her ear, his breath tickling the sensitive skin. Yoojung had to bite down on her lip to stifle a gasp.

"It's just... a big commitment, you know?" Yoojung continued to Hyun-woo, her voice slightly strained. With each of Min-jae's thrusts, a searing pleasure shot through her, making it harder to concentrate on her words. Commitment… ironic, isn’t it?

"Of course, sweetheart," Hyun-woo said gently. "But it's a wonderful one. One that I know we're both ready for."

Min-jae pulled almost out and then plunged back in, hitting her sweet spot again and again. Yoojung's knees threatened to buckle, and she had to grip the dress in front of her to stay upright. A soft whimper escaped her lips.

"Did you say something?" Hyun-woo asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

"Just... adjusting my dress," Yoojung lied quickly, trying to keep her voice even. Behind her, Min-jae chuckled softly against her back, his cock throbbing deeply inside her. He knew exactly the precarious position he had put her in, and the thrill of it was evident in his movements.

“Yes, a very big step,” Yoojung replied to Hyun-woo, her voice wavering slightly as Min-jae’s pace quickened behind her. He was now thrusting with a more urgent rhythm, his hips grinding against her backside with a subtle friction that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through her. She gripped the fabric of a nearby dress tightly, her knuckles white.

“But one you’re ready for, right?” Hyun-woo asked, a touch of teasing in his tone. “No last-minute cold feet?”

“Ready,” Yoojung insisted, her voice gaining a forced firmness. Behind her, Min-jae’s hand slipped lower, his fingers now tracing the wet folds surrounding his invading cock. He pressed down gently on her perineum with his thumb as he thrust upwards, hitting her deepest nerve. A gasp escaped her lips, and she coughed quickly to cover it.

“Sounds like you’re still catching your breath,” Hyun-woo chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you tonight.”

Min-jae’s lips were now at Yoojung’s ear again, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine. “Tonight?” he whispered, his voice thick with amusement and lust. “He has no idea what kind of ‘care’ you truly crave, does he?” He thrust hard, making Yoojung’s knees buckle slightly.

“Just… a little excited,” Yoojung managed, trying to keep her voice steady for Hyun-woo. Her head lolled forward against the dress she was holding, her body a tense wire strung between feigned composure and raw, mounting pleasure. Min-jae continued his relentless assault, each thrust a deep, possessive claim on her body, a secret, forbidden act taking place mere feet from her unsuspecting fiancé.

“Alright, my love, I’ll let you get back to your final touches,” Hyun-woo said, his voice fading as he presumably left the dressing room, the door clicking shut behind him.

A wave of relief washed over Yoojung, the tension that had been coiled tight in her shoulders finally beginning to loosen. Her earlier panic receded, replaced by a surge of adrenaline and a lingering flush of arousal. She turned to face Min-jae, ready to deliver a scathing reprimand for his reckless behavior.

But the sight that greeted her stopped her words in her throat. Min-jae hadn’t moved, his trousers still unfastened, his thick, hard cock standing at full attention, jutting out from the fabric. The sheer size and obvious arousal on display were a stark reminder of the intense pleasure he had just given her.

Her initial irritation melted away, replaced by a potent wave of desire. Her gaze dropped from his impressive erection back up to his eyes, a newfound boldness sparking within her. Instead of scolding him, a slow, seductive smile spread across her lips. Reaching out, she hooked her fingers around his loosened tie and gave a sharp tug, pulling him closer. “Oh, I’m not quite done with you yet,” she purred, her voice low and husky. Turning her back to the now-closed door, she led him towards a plush vanity chair in the corner of the room

Yoojung knelt down in front of Min-jae, her eyes tracing the length of his thick, throbbing cock. The head was a deep, rosy red, and a drop of precum glistened at the tip. A soft sigh escaped her lips. “God, Min-jae,” she whispered, her voice thick with rediscovered desire. “I really have missed you… missed this.”

Her hand, still adorned with the delicate lace glove, reached out slowly, hovering just above his erection before finally making contact. She wrapped her fingers around the shaft, feeling the immediate jump in his pulse beneath her touch. “So thick,” she murmured, her thumb running along the underside, feeling the prominent vein throbbing there. “So hard.”

Her touch became bolder, more confident. She slid her hand up and down the length of his cock, her grip firm, milking him gently. A low groan rumbled in Min-jae’s chest. Yoojung leaned closer, her lips just inches from the head of his penis. “Do you remember how I used to love to taste you?” she whispered naughtily, her tongue flicking out to trace the swollen ridge.

Min-jae’s breath hitched. He reached out, his fingers tangling in her hair, tilting her head back slightly. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Yoojung-ah,” he rasped, his eyes burning into hers.

Yoojung just smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She squeezed his cock firmly, then ran her hand slowly down to the base, feeling the weight of his balls in her palm before sliding back up again. “That’s the point, isn’t it?” she purred, her gaze locked on his, a silent challenge and an undeniable invitation in her expression.

Yoojung leaned forward, her gaze never leaving Min-jae’s as she slowly opened her mouth and took the head of his hard cock inside. Her lips closed around him with a practiced suction, and she ran her tongue along the sensitive underside, eliciting a deep groan from him. She then slid further down, taking more and more of his length into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing with the effort.

Her hand continued to stroke the base of his shaft, her fingers occasionally dipping lower to cup his heavy balls, teasing their wrinkled skin. She laved the head of his cock with her tongue, sucking on the tip with an almost desperate hunger, making wet, smacking sounds that filled the silent dressing room.

“God, Yoojung,” Min-jae rasped, his fingers tangling in her hair, his grip tightening and loosening with his escalating arousal. “You always knew how to take care of me.”

Yoojung pulled back slightly, her lips glistening with his precum. “And you know how much I’ve missed it,” she replied, her voice husky. She then dipped her head again, taking his full length into her mouth this time, sucking deeply until he shuddered.

“In just about an hour,” Min-jae said, his voice strained, “you’ll be standing at the altar, promising yourself to another man. And just now…”

Yoojung punctuated his sentence by taking his balls into her mouth, slurping on them greedily, making Min-jae groan loudly. She looked up at him through her lashes, a wicked glint in her eyes. “And just now,” she finished, her mouth still full, “I’m tasting you like you’re all mine.” She then returned to his cock, sucking with renewed intensity.

“Those lips,” Min-jae continued, his hips beginning to thrust involuntarily against her mouth. “In an hour, you’ll be using those lips to kiss him… the same lips that are wrapped around my cock right now, sucking me like you can’t get enough.”

Yoojung pulled back again, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her chest heaving. “He won’t know what these lips have been doing,” she purred, her eyes filled with a delicious naughtiness. She leaned forward and took him back into her mouth, her hunger seeming insatiable.

With a sudden surge of desire and a newfound boldness, Yoojung took the lead. She stepped back slightly, her eyes blazing with a raw hunger that mirrored his own. With a swift movement, she reached down and gathered the heavy skirts of her wedding gown, lifting them high around her waist, revealing her bare thighs and the glistening, swollen lips of her already thoroughly aroused vagina.

She looked directly into Min-jae’s eyes, a provocative challenge in her gaze. Without a word, she turned her back to him, positioning herself over his still-erect cock. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered herself, guiding the head of his penis with her hand to the slick opening between her legs. With a soft groan of pure pleasure, she slid down onto him, feeling his thick length fill her completely, stretching her in that familiar, exquisite way.

A jolt of intense sensation shot through her, a feeling of homecoming after a long absence. She closed her eyes, her breath catching in her throat as her body paused, savoring the fullness, the perfect fit. For a moment, the only sound in the room was their mingled breathing. Then, with a slow, sensual rhythm, Yoojung began to move, her hips rocking gently against his, her body remembering the dance they had performed so many times before.

From his hidden vantage point, the reflection in the ornate, gilded mirror across the spacious dressing room offered Min-jae a voyeuristic masterpiece, a tableau of raw desire unfolding in the most forbidden of settings. Yoojung’s head, tilted back at an almost regal angle, betrayed the sheer pleasure coursing through her. Her lips, still slightly swollen and reddened from his earlier kisses, were parted in a silent symphony of moans and gasps, each exhalation misting the air around her. Her eyes, though mostly closed, would occasionally flutter open, revealing a hazy, unfocused gaze, lost in the intoxicating sensations he was delivering.

The way her body moved upon his was a dance of pure instinct, a rhythm honed by years of shared intimacy. With each slow, deliberate descent, her core tightened around his shaft, milking him with a precision that sent shivers of pure ecstasy down his spine. He could see the slight tremble in her shoulders, the delicate arch of her back, the subtle flexing of the muscles in her arms as she gripped the edge of a nearby dress for support.

Her breasts, now fully exposed and gloriously unrestrained, bounced with each movement, their weight and fullness evident in the way they swayed. The dusky pink areolae, their nipples still proudly erect from his attention, seemed to beckon his touch. The contrast against the pristine white of the surrounding wedding dress was a visual feast, a stark reminder of the secret, passionate storm raging beneath the surface of her bridal facade.

And then there was the focal point, the nexus of their illicit union: her vagina, glistening wet and openly displaying the rhythmic intrusion of his engorged cock. With each downward slide, his thick shaft disappeared completely within her, the tight walls of her canal gripping him firmly, drawing out a strangled groan from his own throat. As she rose, the mirror captured the slow, tantalizing reveal, the slick head of his penis emerging, coated in her juices, before plunging back in again with a soft, fleshy sound that echoed in the otherwise silent room. He could see the delicate folds of her inner lips parting to accommodate his girth, the way they clung to him, almost desperately.

Her thighs, milky white and toned from years of dancing and exercise, framed this intimate portrait. They flexed with each movement, their inner surfaces brushing against his own, a friction that added another layer of sensory overload to the already intense experience. He imagined the heat radiating from her core, the frantic pulse that surely hammered beneath her skin. He was buried deep within her, their connection a visceral, undeniable truth that transcended the white dress and the impending vows to another man. This was Yoojung, his Yoojung, lost in the moment, her body singing a song of pure, unadulterated pleasure only he knew how to orchestrate. The reflection in the mirror was a testament to their secret history, a forbidden indulgence stolen in the precious moments before she was supposed to begin her new life.

Min-jae, watching Yoojung’s reflection in the mirror, a primal urge finally taking over, could no longer remain a passive recipient of her ministrations. He gripped her hips firmly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her buttocks, and initiated his own deep, powerful thrusts. His hips began to move in sync with hers, then quickly overtook her slower rhythm, driving deeper and harder with each push.

The change in pace sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure rocketing through Yoojung. Her breath hitched, and a series of involuntary moans spilled from her lips, louder and less inhibited than before. Her head lolled back against the cool wallpaper behind her, her eyes fluttering closed as she surrendered completely to the overwhelming sensations. Her long, dark hair, usually styled with such precision, now tumbled down her back and over her shoulders in a wild, tangled mess, framing a face flushed with desire. A sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead and the delicate curve of her neck, catching the light filtering through the nearby window.

Her exposed breasts bounced with an almost frantic energy, the nipples taut and achingly sensitive with each jarring movement. Min-jae’s hands tightened on her hips, guiding her, controlling the depth and angle of each thrust, ensuring maximum pleasure for them both. He could feel the intense heat radiating from her core, the frantic clenching of her muscles around his throbbing cock.

“That’s it, Yoojung,” he rasped, his voice thick with lust and exertion. “Ride me like you mean it. Like you used to.” His words were a potent reminder of their shared past, igniting a wilder, more uninhibited passion within her.

Yoojung’s movements became more frantic, her earlier slow, sensual rhythm now replaced by a desperate urgency. She bucked against him, meeting each of his powerful thrusts with an equal intensity, her body seemingly possessed by a primal need for release. The soft rustling of her wedding dress against her bare skin, the faint squeaking of the chair beneath them, and their ragged breaths filled the small space behind the row of dresses.

Min-jae leaned forward, his lips finding the sensitive skin of her neck, nipping and sucking gently, adding another layer of sensation to her already overloaded senses. His hands continued their relentless work on her hips and buttocks, squeezing, kneading, and lifting her to meet his every thrust with an almost savage intensity. He could feel her fingernails digging into his back, her silent language of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

The reflection in the mirror showcased her utter abandon, the way her body was completely consumed by the act. Her lips were parted in a silent scream of pleasure, her chest heaving with each frantic breath. The sight of their joined bodies, the pristine white of her wedding dress in stark contrast to their sweaty, entwined forms, was a potent and undeniably erotic spectacle,

“Think he’s excited to finally call you his wife?” Min-jae murmured against her neck as he thrust deep, his hands now free to roam. Yoojung gasped softly, her head falling forward. “He’s a good man, Hyun-woo,” she replied, a hint of defensiveness in her voice. “He deserves to be happy.”

Min-jae’s hands found her breasts, which swung freely with her movements as she rode him, her back to his chest. He cupped their weight, his thumbs brushing across her nipples, which were still incredibly sensitive. “And you? Are you happy to be his?” he asked, his voice low and probing.

Yoojung hesitated for a moment, her rhythm faltering slightly. “He makes me feel safe,” she finally said, a touch of uncertainty in her tone.

Min-jae chuckled softly, his fingers now gently squeezing and kneading her breasts, enjoying the feel of their fullness. “Safe is good, Yoojung-ah. But is it… this?” He punctuated his question with a deep, powerful thrust that made her cry out. Her hands gripped his forearms for support, her knuckles white.

“He… he’s kind,” she continued, her voice a little breathier now as Min-jae’s ministrations on her breasts intensified. He was teasing her nipples, pinching them lightly, sending jolts of pleasure down her spine.

“Kind,” Min-jae repeated, his lips finding the sensitive spot behind her ear. “Is kind what makes your pussy clench around my cock like this?” He thrust again, and Yoojung’s head fell forward, a soft moan escaping her lips. Her hips continued to rock against him, an undeniable rhythm of desire.

“He… he loves me,” she whispered, a note of vulnerability creeping into her voice.

Min-jae’s hands continued to play with her breasts, one hand now gently stroking the underside while the other teased her nipple. “And I don’t?” he asked, his voice laced with a familiar tenderness that momentarily cut through the haze of lust.

Yoojung remained silent for a moment, her body still moving on his, the sensation too intense to ignore. “It’s different,” she finally said, a sigh escaping her lips. “It was always different with you.”

Min-jae’s grip on her hips tightened, his thrusts becoming deeper and more insistent. “And it still is,” he murmured, his lips finding the curve of her neck. “Even now, in your wedding dress, about to marry another man.” He squeezed one of her breasts firmly, and Yoojung’s head fell back, a soft gasp escaping her lips.

As Yoojung’s movements reached a fever pitch, a series of sharp, shuddering breaths escaped her lips. Her body tensed, every muscle clenching around Min-jae’s cock in a tight, spasmic grip. A high-pitched cry tore from her throat as wave after wave of intense pleasure washed over her, her climax rocking her body uncontrollably. Her grip on his arms tightened to the point of pain, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, her breathing ragged.

Min-jae held her tightly, feeling the pulsing contractions of her orgasm gripping his length. He waited for the tremors to subside slightly before, with a low grunt, he straightened his legs, standing up while still deeply embedded within her. Yoojung, caught off guard by the sudden change in elevation, instinctively bent forward, her hands now resting on the back of the vanity chair she had been facing moments before.

Her wedding gown was now bunched high around her waist, her bare buttocks thrust out behind her, offering Min-jae an even more exposed and vulnerable view. Her breasts swung freely, still damp from his kisses. He gripped her hips firmly, his cock still buried deep inside her, and began to thrust again, the change in angle offering a different, equally intense sensation.

“Like this, Yoojung-ah?” he rasped, his breath hot against her ear. “Bent over for me, just like a little slut? Is this how you should be before your wedding, your tight little pussy still wet and stretched from my cock?”

Yoojung gasped, the new position intensifying the stretching sensation. “Min-jae… oh God…” she moaned, her voice thick with lingering pleasure and a hint of breathless shock.

He continued to pump into her, his thrusts hard and deep. “That pretty little ass of yours is begging for my handprints, isn’t it? Begging for a spank or two before you walk down the aisle all innocent and pure.” He slapped her bare backside lightly, the sound echoing in the room. “Remember whose you really are, Yoojung. Remember who had you screaming just moments before you promise yourself to him.”

Min-jae’s grip shifted, his fingers tangling in the soft strands of Yoojung’s hair at the nape of her neck. He gently but firmly raised her head, forcing her to look at their reflection in the large mirror across the room. The sight that greeted her was a raw, unfiltered depiction of their transgression. Her face was flushed and contorted in a mask of pure, unadulterated pleasure, her eyes wide and glazed, barely seeing her own image. Her exposed breasts, heavy and swollen, hung low, their nipples dark and wet from his earlier ministrations. Her knees were visibly trembling, threatening to buckle beneath her.

The sight of her own body so completely lost to pleasure, so utterly yielding to him in her bridal attire, sent another wave of intense sensation crashing over Yoojung. Her muscles clenched around Min-jae’s cock, the pulsing contractions starting again, even stronger this time. A strangled cry escaped her lips, her body shuddering with the force of her second orgasm.

Min-jae groaned, feeling the intense tightening around his shaft, the unmistakable sign of her climax triggering his own. His thrusts became deeper, faster, more desperate. The friction intensified, the pleasure reaching an unbearable peak. With a final, guttural roar, he emptied his seed deep inside her, his body convulsing as he spilled his hot load into the woman who was about to marry another man

Yoojung took a deep breath, the air in the dressing room suddenly feeling thick with unspoken promises and lingering tension. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against the cool wood of the vanity table for a moment, gathering her thoughts. The weight of Min-jae’s seed inside her was a tangible reminder of their secret, a stark contrast to the pristine white fabric clinging to her body.

Min-jae, still breathing heavily behind her, gently withdrew, the sensation leaving a lingering ache and a sense of emptiness, quickly replaced by the knowledge of what had just transpired. He stepped closer, his hands resting lightly on her hips. “So,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that only she could hear. “Now what, my beautiful bride?”

Yoojung straightened up, turning to face him, her expression a complex mix of exhilaration and a strange sort of newfound confidence. The flush on her cheeks was still vibrant, and her eyes held a knowing glint. “Now,” she echoed, a slow smile spreading across her lips, “I go and get married.”

Min-jae raised an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism in his gaze. “Just like that? After… that?”

“After that,” Yoojung affirmed, stepping closer to him, her fingers lightly tracing the line of his jaw. “I walk down the aisle, become Mrs. Hyun-woo, and play the part perfectly.” She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. “And you, Min-jae, you were just the photographer, capturing the happy day.”

“And what happens after the happy day?” he asked, his voice husky with anticipation.

Yoojung’s smile widened. “After the happy day,” she whispered, her eyes locking with his, a silent promise passing between them, “whenever I need a reminder of what I truly desire, whenever I need a real touch, a real connection… I know exactly where to find you.” She ran her hand down his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her fingertips. “You’ll be ready, won’t you?”

Min-jae’s grip tightened on her hips, his gaze burning into hers. “Always, Yoojung-ah. Always.”

She stepped back, her eyes flicking down to his still-aroused member. “Keep that in mind for later.” With a final, lingering look that held both a promise and a silent command, Yoojung turned away and began to straighten her wedding dress, the faint, sweet scent of their mingled desires lingering in the air. The knowledge of their secret, the power she now felt in controlling their future encounters, gave her a strange sense of calm as she prepared to face her groom. The aisle awaited, and she would walk it with a secret, scandalous thrill pulsing within her.

#kpop smut #kpop #korean av #korean actress smut #k actress #actress smut #korean actress #kim yoo jung #yoo jung smut #karina smut #ive wonyoung #wonyoung smut #nayeon smut #karina #twice #twice jihyo #twice nayeon #twice sana #iu smut

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30somethingautisticteacher · 1 year ago

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Jee Dates

Enjoy some tooth rotting fluff...I love Uncle Buck and Uncle Tommy. 🥰 I have been writing so much but I guess it's because I definitely won't have the time once school starts back up!

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"Tommy, wake up," Buck said softly, gently shaking his boyfriend's shoulder. "It's Jee date day."

Tommy stirred, a smile spreading across his face even before he opened his eyes. "Already? What time is it?"

"Early," Buck chuckled, "but you know how excited she gets. We promised to pick her up at 9."

As Tommy got out of bed, stretching, Buck couldn't help but reflect on how they'd gotten to this point. He wasn't quite sure how it happened. He had always been close to his niece, but once he and Tommy started dating, she was drawn to Tommy like a magnet. And Tommy definitely didn't mind his adoring fan.

At first, it was casual outings - they would take her to the park or out for ice cream, or she'd come to their house for pancakes. But somehow, those casual meetups evolved into what they now called "Jee dates."

Now they had a standing date once a month where they would spend the whole day with Jee, doing activities of her choice. It had become something all three of them looked forward to, a special tradition that strengthened their bond as a family.

"So, remind me what the plan is for today?" Tommy asked as he pulled on a t-shirt.

Buck's grin widened. "To your delight, and Maddie's dismay, Jee has chosen the Monster Truck rally."

Tommy's face lit up with excitement. "Yes! I knew that kid had good taste."

"Well, she certainly takes after her Uncle Tommy in some ways," Buck laughed. "Maddie's convinced you're corrupting her daughter."

"Hey, expanding her interests is not corruption," Tommy defended playfully. "Besides, Jee loved Disney on Ice last month. She's a well-rounded kid."

Buck nodded, remembering how Jee's eyes had lit up watching her favorite characters glide across the ice. "That's true. From Disney princesses to monster trucks – our girl's got range."

"Exactly," Tommy agreed. "And who knows, maybe she'll grow up to be a professional ice skater who drives monster trucks in her spare time."

Buck couldn't help but laugh at the image. "Now that would be something to see. Maddie would probably blame us for that career choice too."

As they continued to get ready, both men felt a surge of anticipation for the day ahead. These "Jee dates" had become more than just a fun outing - they were a chance for Buck and Tommy to share their love, to be role models, and to create lasting memories with the little girl who had stolen both their hearts.

"Ready to go pick up our favorite girl?" Buck asked, keys in hand.

Tommy nodded, a soft smile on his face. "Always. Let's make this a Jee date to remember."

With that, they headed out, ready for a day full of monster trucks, cotton candy, and the unbridled joy of a child they both adored.

As they got into the car, Tommy grinned and said, "Ready for another adventure with Jee-bug, fellow Guncle?"

Buck rolled his eyes fondly. "You know, technically that's not quite right. I'm not gay, I'm bi."

Tommy's face took on an exaggerated look of shock, his voice deadpan and dripping with sarcasm. "Wait, you're bi? How come you never told me?"

Buck couldn't help but laugh, playfully shoving Tommy's shoulder. "Oh, shut up. You know what I mean."

Tommy's facade cracked as he chuckled. "I know, I know. But 'Quncles' doesn't roll off the tongue quite as well, does it?"

"True," Buck agreed, still grinning. "Though Maddie still thinks the qualifier isn't necessary."

Tommy nodded, his expression softening. "Right, because we're both just Jee's loving uncles, regardless of our sexuality."

"Exactly," Buck said. "But I have to admit, I do like our little 'Guncles' thing, even if it's not technically accurate for me."

As they pulled up to Maddie and Chimney's house, they could see Jee's excited face peering out the window, clearly having been watching for their arrival.

"Guncles!" she squealed as she ran out the door, Maddie following close behind with a backpack full of Jee's things.

Maddie shook her head with a fond smile. "I still say you're just uncles, but I guess I'm outvoted on this one."

Tommy grinned. "What can we say? The kid has spoken."

Buck just laughed as he got out of the car to scoop up their excited niece. "Ready for some monster trucks, Jee-bug?"

As they drove towards the Monster Truck rally, Jee chatted away happily in the backseat. Suddenly, she piped up with a series of questions that caught both men off guard.

"Hey Uncle Buck, how come you date boys? Are you guys ever gonna get married and be husbands? Can I be the flower girl if you do? And please don't get married at the hospital like Mommy and Daddy did, okay? And how come Mara and Denny have 2 Mommies? Are you ever gonna have a kid? Will your baby have 2 Daddies? If they do, will they be sad they don't have a Mommy? Will they call both of you Daddy?"

"Well, Jee-bug, that's a lot of questions," Buck started, his voice gentle. "I'll try to answer them all. I date boys, or in this case, your Uncle Tommy, because that's who I fell in love with. Some people love boys, some love girls, and some, like me, can love both."

Tommy nodded, adding, "And yes, we do plan to get married and be husbands someday. When we do, we'd love for you to be our flower girl."

"And we promise not to get married in a hospital," Buck chimed in with a grin. "We'll pick somewhere much more fun."

"As for Mara and Denny having two mommies," Tommy continued, "families come in all different shapes and sizes. Some have a mom and a dad, some have two moms or two dads, and some have just one parent."

Buck picked up the thread, "Tommy and I would love to have a family someday. And yes, if we do, your cousin will have two dads."

"But they won't be sad about not having a mommy," Tommy added. "Because they'll have two parents who love them very much, just like your mom and dad love you."

"And if we do have kids," Buck concluded, "they might call us both Daddy, or we might use different names to avoid confusion. We'll figure that out when the time comes."

Jee seemed to consider this for a moment. "Okay," she said finally. "Can we get cotton candy at the monster trucks?"

Buck and Tommy both chuckled at the abrupt change of subject, typical of a child Jee's age.

"Sure thing, Jee-bug," Tommy said, catching Buck's eye with a warm smile. They both felt a surge of love - for each other, for Jee, and for the family they would have someday.

#bucktommy #tevan #kinley #uncle buck #uncle tommy #jee yun buckley han #tooth rotting fluff #30sat writes

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matttgirlies · 1 year ago

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Matt & Me 🎀

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

a story heavily based on Priscilla Presley’s Book “Elvis & Me” based in the 1950’s - 1970’s.

fem! reader x singer! matt

disclaimer!! - in no way am i saying matt would ever support or do these kind of things, for the sake of the book certain unethical things do happen at times.

warnings - age gap,, i think thats all

all of the songs and celebrities mentioned in here are from the time periods this was written if you are confused🩷

Chapter 1

It was 1956. I was living with my family at the Bergstrom Air Force Base in Austin, Texas, where my father, then Captain, Joseph Paul y/ln, a career officer, was stationed. He came home late for dinner one evening and handed me a record album.

“I don’t know what this Matt guy is all about,” he said, “but he must be something special. I stood in line with half the Air Force at the PX to get this for you; everybody wants it.”

I put the record on the hi-fi and heard the rocking music of “Blue Suede Shoes.” The album was titled Matt Sturniolo. It was his first.

Like almost every other kid in America, I liked Matt but not as fanatically as many of my girl friends at Del Valley Junior High. They all had Matt T-shirts and Matt hats and Matt socks and even lipstick in colors with names like Hound Dog Orange and Heartbreak Pink referencing names of his songs. Matt was everywhere, on bubblegum cards and Bermuda shorts, on diaries and wallets and pictures that glowed in the dark. The boys at school began trying to look like him, with their fluffy hair and turned up collars.

One girl was so crazy about him that she was running his local fan club. She said I could join for twenty-five cents, the price of a book she’d ordered for me by mail. When I received it, I was shocked to see a picture of Matt signing the bare chests of a couple of girls, at that time an unheard-of act.

Then I saw him on television on Jimmy and Tommy Dorsey’s Stage Show. He was sexy and handsome, with his deep brooding eyes, pouty lips, and crooked smile. He strutted out to the microphone, spread his legs, leaned back, and strummed his guitar. Then he began singing with such confidence, moving his body with unbridled sexuality. Despite myself, I was attracted.

Some members of his adult audience were less enthusiastic. Soon his performances were labeled obscene. My mother stated emphatically that he was “a bad influence for teenage girls. He arouses things in them that shouldn’t be aroused. If there’s ever a mothers’ march against Matt Sturniolo, I’ll be the first in line.”

But I’d heard that despite all of his stage antics and lustful, tough-guy looks, Matt came from a strict Southern Christian background. He was a country boy who didn’t smoke or drink, who loved and honored his parents, and who addressed all adults as “sir” or “ma’am.”

I was an Air Force child, a shy, pretty little girl, unhappily accustomed to moving from base to base every two or three years. By the time I was eleven, I had lived in six different cities and, fearful of not being accepted, I either kept to myself or waited for someone to befriend me. I found it especially difficult entering a new school in the middle of the year, when cliques had already been established and newcomers were considered outsiders.

Small and petite, with long y/hc hair, y/ec eyes, and an upturned nose, I was always stared at by the other students. At first girls would see me as a rival, afraid I’d take their boyfriends away. I seemed to feel more comfortable with boys—and they were usually friendlier.

People always said I was the prettiest girl in school, but I never felt that way. I was skinny, practically scrawny, and even if I was as cute, as people said, I wanted to have more than just good looks. Only with my family did I really feel totally protected and loved. Close and supportive, they provided my stability.

A photographer’s model before her marriage, my mother was totally devoted to her family. As the oldest, it was my responsibility to help her with the kids. After me, there were Don, four years younger, and Michelle, my only sister, who was five years younger than Don. Jeff and the twins, Tim and Tom, hadn’t yet been born.

My mother was too shy to talk about the facts of life, so my sex education came in school, when I was in the sixth grade. Some kids were passing around a book that looked like the Bible from the outside, but when you opened it, there were pictures of men making love to women, and women making love to each other.

My body was changing and stirring with new feelings. I’d gotten looks from boys at school, and once a picture of me in a tight turtleneck sweater was stolen from the school bulletin board. Yet I was still a child, embarrassed about my own sexuality. I fantasized endlessly about French-kissing, but when my friends who hung around our house played spin the bottle, it would take me half an hour to let a boy kiss my pursed lips.

My strong, handsome father was the center of our world. He was a hard worker who had earned his degree in Business Administration at University of Texas. At home he ran a tight ship. He was a firm believer in discipline and responsibility, and he and I frequently knocked heads. When I became a cheerleader at thirteen, it was all I could do to convince him to let me go to out-of-town games. Other times no amount of crying, pleading, or appealing to my mother would change his mind. When he laid down the law, that was that.

I managed to get around him occasionally. When he refused to let me wear a tight skirt, I joined the Girl Scouts specifically so I could wear their tight uniform.

My parents were survivors. Although they often had to struggle financially, we children were the last to feel it. When I was a little girl my mother sewed pretty tablecloths to cover the orange crates that we used as end tables. Rather than do without, we made the best of what we had.

Dinner was strictly group participation: Mother cooked, one of us set the table, and the rest cleaned up. Nobody got away with anything, but we were very supportive of one another. I felt fortunate to have a close-knit family.

Going through old albums of family photographs showing my parents when they were young fascinated me. I was curious about the past. World War II intrigued me, especially since my father had fought with the Marines on Okinawa. He looked handsome in his uniform—you could tell he was posing for my mother—but somehow his smile looked out of place, especially when you realized where he was. When I read the note on the back of the picture about how much he missed my mother, my eyes filled with tears.

While rummaging through the family keepsakes I came upon a small wooden box. Inside was a carefully folded American flag, the kind that I knew was given to servicemen’s widows. Also inside the box was a picture of my mother with her arm around a strange man and, sitting on her lap, an infant. On the back of the photo was inscribed “Mommy, Daddy, y/n.” I had discovered a family secret.

Feeling betrayed, I ran to phone my mother, who was at a party nearby. Within minutes I was in her arms, crying as she calmed me and explained that when I was six months old, my real father, Lieutenant James Wagner, a handsome Navy pilot, had been killed in a plane crash while returning home on leave. Two and a half years later, she married Paul y/ln, who adopted me and had always loved me as his own.

Mother suggested I keep my discovery from the other children. She felt it would endanger our family closeness, though when it did become known, it had no effect on our feelings for one another. She gave me a gold locket that my father had given her. I cherished that locket and wore it for years and fantasized that my father died a great hero. In times of emotional pain and loneliness he would become my guardian angel.

By the end of the year, I’d been nominated to run for Queen of Del Valley Junior High. This was my first taste of politics and competition and it was especially trying because I was running against Millie Collins, my best friend.

We each had a campaign manager introducing us as we went from house to house knocking on doors. My manager tried to talk each person into voting for me and donating a penny or more per vote to a school fund. The nominee who collected the most money won. I was sure that this competition would jeopardize my friendship with Millie, which was more important to me than winning. I considered quitting but felt I couldn’t let my parents or my supporters down. While my mother was out looking for a dress for me to wear to the coronation, my dad kept reminding me to memorize an acceptance speech. I kept putting it off, certain I was going to lose.

It was the last day of the campaign, and a rumor began circulating that Millie’s grandparents had put in a hundred-dollar bill for their vote. My parents were disappointed; there was no way that they could afford to match that much money and even if they could, they objected on principle.

The night they announced the winner, I was all dressed up in a new turquoise blue, strapless tulle net formal that itched so badly I couldn’t wait to take it off. I sat beside Millie on the dais in the large school auditorium. I could see my parents with happy, confident looks on their faces though I was sure they were going to be disheartened. Then the principal walked up to the podium.

“And now,” she said, hesitating to heighten the suspense, “is the moment you’ve all been waiting for . . . the culmination of a month of campaigning by our two lovely contestants: y/n y/ln . . .” All eyes turned toward me. I blushed and glanced at Millie. “ . . . and Millie Collins.” Our eyes locked for a brief, tense moment.

“The new Queen of Del Valley Junior High is . . .” A drum roll sounded. “ . . . y/n y/ln.”

The audience applauded wildly. I was in shock. Called up to the stage to give my speech, I had none. Sure that I was going to lose, I’d never even bothered to write one. I walked, trembling, to the podium, then looked out at the crowded auditorium. All I could see was my father’s face, growing more disappointed as he realized I had nothing to say. When I finally spoke, it was to apologize.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m not prepared to give a speech, as I did not expect to win. But thank you very much for voting for me. I’ll do my very best.” And then, looking at my father, I added, “I’m sorry, Dad.”

I was surprised as the audience graciously applauded, but I still had to face my father and hear him say, “I told you so.”

Being elected Queen was a bittersweet victory, because the closeness that Millie and I once shared was restrained. Still, to me that crown symbolized a wonderful, unfamiliar feeling: acceptance.

My newfound tranquility ended abruptly when my father announced that he was being transferred to Wiesbaden, West Germany.

I was crushed. Germany was the other side of the world. All my fears returned. My first thought was, What am I going to do about my friends? I turned to my mother, who was sympathetic and reminded me that we were in the Air Force and moving was an unavoidable part of our lives.

I finished junior high school, my mother gave birth to baby Jeff, and we said our goodbyes to neighbors and good friends. Everyone promised to write or call, but remembering past promises I knew better. My friend Stephanie jokingly told me that Matt Sturniolo was stationed in Bad Neuheim, West Germany. “Do you believe it? You’re going to be in the same country as Matt Sturniolo,” she said. We looked at a map and found that Bad Neuheim was close to Wiesbaden. I said back, “I’m going over there to meet Matt.” We both laughed, hugged each other, and said goodbye.

West Germany

The fifteen-hour flight to West Germany seemed interminable, but finally we arrived in the beautiful old city of Wiesbaden, headquarters of the U.S. Air Force in Europe. There we checked into the Helene Hotel, a massive and venerable building on the main thoroughfare. After three months, hotel living became too expensive and we began looking for a place to rent.

We felt lucky to find a large apartment in a vintage building constructed long before World War I. Soon after we moved in, we noticed that all the other apartments were rented to single girls. These Fräuleins walked around all day long in robes and negligees, and at night they were dressed to kill. Once we learned a little German, we realized that, although the pension was very discreet, we were living in a brothel.

Moving was out of the question—housing was too scarce—but the location did little to help me to adjust. Not only was I isolated from other American families, but there was the language barrier. I was accustomed to changing schools frequently, but a foreign country posed altogether new problems, principally that I couldn’t share my thoughts. I began to feel that my life had stopped dead in its tracks.

September came and with it, school. Once again I was the new girl. I was no longer popular and secure as I’d been at Del.

There was a place called the Eagles Club, where American service families went for dinner and entertainment. It was within walking distance of the pension and soon proved an important discovery for me. Every day after school, I’d go to the snack bar there and listen to the jukebox and write letters to my friends back home in Austin, telling them how much I missed them. Drowning in tears, I’d spend my weekly allowance playing the songs that were very popular back in the States—Frankie Avalon’s “Venus” and the Everly Brothers’ “All I Have to Do Is Dream.”

One warm summer afternoon, I was sitting with my brother Don when I noticed a handsome man in his twenties staring at me. I’d seen him watching me before, but I’d never paid any attention to him. This time, he stood up and walked toward me. He introduced himself as Steven Wright and asked my name.

“y/n y/ln,” I said, immediately suspicious; he was much older than me.

He asked where in the States I came from, how I liked Germany, and if I liked Matt Sturniolo.

“Of course,” I said, laughing. “Who doesn’t?”

“I’m a good friend of his. My wife and I go to his house quite often. How would you like to join us one evening?”

Unprepared for such an extraordinary invitation, I grew even more skeptical and guarded. I told him I’d have to ask my parents. Over the course of the next two weeks, Steven met my parents and my father checked out his credentials. Steven was also in the Air Force and it turned out that my father knew his commanding officer. That seemed to break the ice between them. Steven assured Dad that I’d be well chaperoned when we visited Matt, who lived off base in a house in Bad Nauheim.

On the appointed night I tore through my closet, trying to find an appropriate outfit. Nothing seemed dressy enough for meeting Matt Sturniolo. I settled on a navy and white sailor dress and white socks and shoes. Surveying myself in the mirror, I thought I looked cute, but being only fourteen, I didn’t think I’d make any kind of impression on Matt.

Eight o’clock finally arrived, and so did Steven Wright and his attractive wife, Carole. Anxious, I hardly spoke to either of them during the forty-five-minute drive. We entered the small town of Bad Nauheim, with its narrow cobblestone streets and plain, old-fashioned houses, and I kept looking around for what I assumed would be Matt’s huge mansion. Instead Steven pulled up to an ordinary-looking three-story house surrounded by a white picket fence.

There was a sign on the gate in German, which translated as: autographs between 7:00 and 8:00 p.m. only. Even though it was after eight o’clock, a large group of friendly German girls waited around expectantly. When I asked Steven about them, he explained that there were always large groups of fans outside the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of Matt.

I followed Steven through the gate and up the short pathway to the door. We were welcomed by James Sturniolo, Matt’s father, a tall, gray-haired, attractive man, who led us down a long hallway to the living room, from which I could hear Brenda Lee on the record player, singing “Sweet Nothin’s.”

The plain, almost drab living room was filled with people, but I spotted Matt immediately. He was handsomer than he appeared in films, younger and more vulnerable-looking with his haircut. He was in civilian clothes, a bright red sweater and tan slacks, and he was sitting with one leg swung over the arm of a large overstuffed chair, with a cigar dangling from his lips.

As Steven led me over to him, Matt stood up and smiled. “Well,” he said. “What have we here?”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I just kept staring at him.

“Matt,” Steven said, “this is y/n y/ln. The girl I told you about.”

We shook hands and he said, “Hi, I’m Matt Sturniolo,” but then there was a silence between us until Matt asked me to sit down beside him, and Steven drifted off.

“So,” Matt said. “Do you go to school?”

“Yes.”

“What are you, about a junior or senior in high school?”

I blushed and said nothing, not willing to reveal that I was only in the ninth grade.

“Well,” he persisted.

“Ninth.”

Matt looked confused. “Ninth what?”

“Grade,” I whispered.

“Ninth grade,” he said and started laughing. “Why, you’re just a baby.”

“Thanks,” I said curtly. Not even Matt Sturniolo had the right to say that to me.

“Well. Seems the little girl has spunk,” he said, laughing again, amused by my response. He gave me that charming smile of his, and all my resentment just melted away.

We made small talk for a while longer. Then Matt got up and walked over to the piano and sat down. The room suddenly grew silent. Everyone’s eyes were focused on him as he began to entertain us.

He sang “Rags to Riches” and “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” and then with his friends singing harmony, “End of the Rainbow.” He also did a Jerry Lee Lewis impersonation, pounding the keys so hard that a glass of water he’d set on the piano began sliding off. When Matt caught it without missing a beat of the song, everyone laughed and applauded except me. I was nervous. I glanced around the room and saw an intimidating life-size poster of a half-nude model on the wall. She was the last person I wanted to see, with her fulsome body, pouting lips, and wild mane of tousled hair. Imagining Matt’s taste in women, I felt very young and out of place.

I glanced up and saw Matt trying to get my attention. I noticed that the less response I showed, the more he began singing just for me. I couldn’t believe that Matt Sturniolo was trying to impress me.

Later, he asked me to come into the kitchen, where he introduced me to his grandmother, Minnie Mae Sturniolo, who stood by the stove, frying a huge pan of bacon. As we sat down at the table, I told Matt I wasn’t hungry. Actually I was too nervous to eat.

“You’re the first girl I’ve met from the States in a long time,” Matt said, as he began devouring the first of five gigantic bacon sandwiches, each one smothered with mustard. “Who are the kids listening to?”

I laughed. “Are you kidding?” I said. “Everyone listens to you.”

Matt seemed unconvinced. He asked me a lot of questions about Fabian and Ricky Nelson. He told me he was worried about how his fans would accept him when he returned to the States. Since he’d been away, he hadn’t made any public appearances or movies, although he’d had five hit singles, all recorded before he’d left.

It felt like we’d just begun talking when Steven came in and pointed to his watch. I had dreaded that moment; the evening had gone so fast. It seemed I had just arrived and now I was being hurried away. Matt and I had just started to get to know each other. I felt like Cinderella, knowing that when my curfew came, all this magic would end. I was surprised when Matt asked Steven if I could possibly stay longer. When Steven explained the agreement with my father, Matt casually suggested that maybe I could come by again. Though I wanted to more than anything in the world, I didn’t really believe it would happen.

a/n - thoughts on this story so far? all the fashion and technology and things is still based in the time period its set in but i promise it gets better as the story goes on! i know the age gap is crazy but back in the day it was normal and its the age gap in Priscilla’s book so i just stuck with it. I in no way support this at all🎀

Excerpt from: "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley. Scribd.

This material may be protected by copyright.

#matt stuniolo fanfic #matthew sturn #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo edit #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo smut #nick sturniolo #Spotify

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tonguetiedraven · 1 year ago

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If you are still taking requests: rin calming a crying Ryuuji. I need some hurt/comfort for my boy!!!!

I am still taking requests 😊 I changed my settings to stop receiving anons for reasons I’ll explain at the end of the fic so as not to bother people who don’t want to read that (b˙◁˙ )b

On this request, something I actually really like about Ryuuji is that if you tally up the percentage of tears of each of the characters (how many times they openly cry against how many times they appear) Ryuuji is one of the ones that cries the absolute most. He’s never afraid to let his tears fall if he’s passionate about something. This is mostly me exploring that and having Ryuuji realize that a few people are safe to cry around.

Fic under the cut :D (or ;-; I guess xD )

-- -- - (T∩T) - -- --

Ryuuji, despite his gruff and intimidating appearance, found himself often moved to tears. Whether it was from frustration and hurt (probably the most common sort) or heartbreak, or even pure unbridled joy, Ryuuji’s eyes filled up with tears and spilled over fairly frequently.

He’d been ashamed of that when he was little. He had grown up around a lot of men, and while most of them had been incredible and people he could safely model himself after, a few had been harsher and with a different (an almost archaic) sense of what was and was not acceptable for men. Crying had been one of the things at the top of that list. Ryuuji, young and impassioned and pleading for the men he had loved and admired to stay had not realized that it wasn’t only his father they were declaring unfit as a leader. They were seeing the tears splashing down his cheeks and deciding he was also unworthy.

Ryuuji learned about those judgements when he was older, and he learned about how unacceptable crying was for ‘men’ when he was in school. It was yet another thing for the others to tease and belittle him about, and yet another thing that saw him swinging his fists.

He could cry and still kick their asses while he did.

Regardless of his ability to kick other peoples’ asses and his ability to prove himself strong and capable, he learned when he was young that his tears weren’t safe around most people.

It was just another thing that made him defiant. Just another thing he refused to hide and another thing that made him swear to take down all the bullies.

-- -- -(īī ^ īī)- -- --

Ryuuji, to his honest embarrassment, cried within hours of really meeting Rin. He was pretty sure Rin hadn’t noticed though, so he never really mentioned it.

Whether Rin remembered it or not, Rin had plenty of chances to see the waterworks start on Ryuuji though, so it didn’t really remember if he’d noticed them with the drama that had been the reaper. (Mostly drama of Ryuuji’s own making, but Izumo had been an utter dick during that entire semester.)

Crying while you were being choked out was more forgivable than crying while confronting a reaper, and Ryuuji hadn’t had any tears when he told Rin to run in the Impure King’s castle, but he had a few blurry eyed exhaustion tears when Rin refused to run and stood tall and defiantly, pulling his sword out and igniting in a dazzling display that should just look ridiculous with all the candy floss fluff of death rot the castle was made of surrounding them.

There had been tears during the mysteries (of frustration and embarrassment) tears during the shock of Shima spying (pain and anger) and now…

Ryuuji had cried in front of Lightning without meaning too and he had been so angry and upset that Lightning didn’t get it. Upset that Misumi had died and that it had been another death linked to too many deaths. A senseless way for a man who wanted to repent to die. He hadn’t been given the chance to make any sort of atonement or peace. He’d been trapped in some terrible lie and murdered the moment he tried to make it right.

He had drowned in his guilt over it and then Lightning had led him down into Section Thirteen, and now Ryuuji was sitting at a bench in a half frozen park, trying to make sense of the massive list of names and numbers and how shockingly many people had been tortured and murdered and the ones who weren’t outright killed were left frozen in the bowels of this academy as if that was a kindness.

It was too many names to properly comprehend, but the bodies and the faces and the remains he had seen weren’t. They had looked so human and so mutilated, and he didn’t notice the first of the tears spilling down his cheeks as he typed away on his laptop, trying to organize the dead so that they could have some kind of justice served. He didn’t notice himself wiping them away to be able to see his screen at all, and didn’t notice the loud sniff he gave as he saved the spreadsheet that was already too many lines long and opened a new tab for the second batch of clones.

He did notice the bench shifting as a body sat next to him. He hastily hit two keys to lock the screen so no one would see and looked over to try and see who had joined him only for a packet of tissues to be shoved at him by a familiar hand.

“I don’t know what gotcha upset, but if it’s Shima, I’ll burn his clothes off again for ya.”

Ryuuji internally cringed at once again crying in front of Rin, and crying in front of Rin when Rin had been the one who knew and loved Misumi and still didn’t know what had happened.

“It’s not Shima,” he mumbled, not entirely intelligibly and took a tissue. “But you’re always free to burn his clothes off. He usually deserves it.”

It was a lame attempt at a misdirect, but Ryuuji wasn’t exactly on his A game. He didn’t feel like he’d been on his A game since sometime in June. They were well into December now and Ryuuji had all but given up on finding his A game again.

“Not Shima…” Rin hummed under his breath and tapped his finger against his chin. “Is it Lightning? Did he make another mess?”

Ryuuji wiped at his face, finding the tissue soft and gentle against his skin and shook his head. “It’s nothing, man. You don’t need to worry about it.”

Rin’s face immediately scrunched up in frustration. “Not you too.”

Ryuuji’s hand stilled on his cheek and he sniffed, blinking back more of the damned tears as he tried to see Rin through them. It didn’t work particularly well, but even through the blur, he could see the frustration on every inch of Rin’s face and posture.

Ryuuji didn’t do great holding back tears, and Rin didn’t do great at hiding any emotion.

“Me too?” Ryuuji asked with a hiccup.

“Yeah! You too. You’re upset and I wanna help. Nobody is letting me help.”

Ryuuji wanted to tell him. That was the problem. He wanted to seek comfort. He selfishly wanted Rin’s comfort and he wasn’t the one that had been so hurt. He just knew that people had, and that they had been tortured and treated as less than human. That they had been treated like lab rats and they had been babies and children and confused and frightened and left frozen in time, stuck forever in their vats in an attempt to let would-be-gods live forever so they didn’t destroy the world in a toddler-like rage.

He exhaled and passed the packet of tissues back to Rin. “This helped.”

There was a beat of silence as Rin didn’t take the tissues back. Rin’s tail was still flicking, and he was still turned towards Ryuuji, and there were still tears dripping down Ryuuji’s cheeks. Too many for a tissue.

“I don’t know who else isn’t letting you help, but I’ll listen—”

“Oh no you don’t,” Rin interrupted, scowling and shoving Ryuuji’s shoulder enough to send him rocking and having to brace himself. He liked that Rin didn’t check his strength too much around him.

“Don’t you dare try and turn this on me. I am the one comforting.”

Despite everything, Ryuuji’s lips quirked up the slightest bit. “Yeah?”

Rin nodded importantly, pulling on a goofy air. “Yes. Now tell me what you want. More tissues? To talk about it? To go punch something? I can even make you something to eat.”

His grin grew, and there was something else in it that Ryuuji’s chest aching in a different way.

“I can even make it a yakisoba bun. No generation long grudges needed.”

“No?” Ryuuji asked softly, and wished he could just explain. He had a feeling Rin really might listen and tell him he wasn’t over reacting. That all of this did deserve tears.

He grabbed another tissue instead and put all of those thoughts away as he closed the lid of his laptop, promising the dead he’d return to them as soon as he could think and see clearly.

“A yakisoba bun sounds good. The deli probably still has a few.”

Rin’s nose wrinkled up again. “No, we’re gonna make it. None of that overly processed garbage.”

“That garbage is delicious.”

“You’re lucky you’re cool ‘cuz you got awful taste.”

And then Rin was lifting Ryuuji’s bag and heading off towards his dorm, leaving Ryuuji to chase after him and at least momentarily forget that his cheeks were stiff with tears and his throat was thick from them.

-- -- - ( •́ω•̩̥̀ ) - -- --

It was late and dark and Ryuuji had no idea how Rin knew, but his boyfriend did and came up beside him for the run and sat beside him when Ryuuji couldn’t run any further. He had a pack of tissues that he passed over as they collapsed on the bench, and his arm went around Ryuuji as he accepted them.

He’d long since given up trying to hide them around Rin, and he just dabbed a few of the tears away and tilted himself into the side Rin was offering him with a sniffle that could just be pathetic. It was safe to be pathetic and sad around Rin. To let that guard down and that self-preservation and cry without having to be wary. His tears and emotions were safe with Rin, just like Rin’s were safe with him.

“Wanna talk about it?” Rin asked, and brought his other hand around to brush through Ryuuji’s hair.

“Not a lot to talk about,” Ryuuji garbled around the phlegm in his throat and dabbed pointlessly at the tears that were still trying to fall. He couldn’t help the harsh breath or the way he could feel a sob rising and he hated that the memories were there, but Rin had just as bad of ones and Ryuuji hated that too.

There was nothing he could do about either of those things, and the people who had been hurt and killed deserved at least his tears.

“The nightmare? Section Thirteen?”

Ryuuji nodded and tilted his head against Rin’s shoulder. He was getting snot and tears on Rin’s hoodie. Rin didn’t seem to mind and kept brushing his fingers through Ryuuji’s hair.

“Well then, we can feed Amaimon Mephisto’s game collection tomorrow.”

The laugh slipped past Ryuuji without quite meaning to. His arm came around Rin’s middle and hugged him as the sob settled into something more like a hiccup and a hitch in his breath.

“Yeah,” Rin continued. “He likes to eat the controllers. Beetlebug—”

“Beezlebub.”

“Beezlebub will take his ramens if I tell him they’re barbecue flavored.”

Ryuuji’s eyes slipped closed for a moment. The tears were still there and the ache in his chest wasn’t likely to go away, but it helped that he could just let them fall. That Rin didn’t think less of him for them.

“Sounds fair.”

“He’s an ass and deserves it.” Rin said decisively. His fingers brushed through Ryuuji’s hair and his lips pressed against Ryuuji’s forehead before both his arms were wrapping around Ryuuji’s middle and hugging him close, unashamedly cuddly even in the public of a park.

Ryuuji felt indescribably safe like this. Safe to cry, yes, but safe in a different way too. Heard? Possibly, though that didn’t quite describe it either.

It was different in every way from being that kid begging the people around him, the people that he cared so much for to stay. Rin wasn’t going anywhere, and he showed that. He let Ryuuji show himself and let Ryuuji mourn the losses and dark memories and the fears and the excitement and didn’t run and didn’t shy away. He met it head on and he let Ryuuji have a place to get himself calm again.

Even if it was a park in the middle of the night.

“You’re not going back to your dorm,” Rin said when Ryuuji shifted a little and fisted the soiled tissue.

“I’m not?” Ryuuji asked a bit wetly.

“Nope. You’re coming back with me.”

“Sounds like you’re trying to get me to stay over.”

Rin tickled his hip. “I am.”

“Pervert,” Ryuuji joked, and pinched Rin’s side in retaliation of that tickle.

“Yep!” Rin said cheerfully, and scooped Ryuuji right up in his arms like he weighed nothing. Ryuuji’s squawk was loud in the stillness around them, and Rin’s responding laugh was even louder.

-- -- -- -- --

So, housekeeping about my fic submissions and turning off anon.

1) I’ve been harassed by anons for a few years now on tumblr and ao3 and it was exhausting and demoralizing

2) I was getting in a bad headspace about the number of anon requests I was getting and how little interaction the fills of those requests were getting. It was mostly a me problem, because it’s not healthy to write for engagement and reception, but it’s also a very hard thing to mentally turn off, and the amount of requests and the way they’re just consumed made me feel like people saw me as just some kind of vending machine they could feed a prompt into and get a product out of and not a human who does this for fun and because I like the community and connection. The like to reblog ratio being depressing, the silence from whoever had requested those prompts on whether or not they liked them/even read them, and the tone on how some of them were super bossy and demanding were absolutely getting to me, so all of those reasons led me to turning off the anon and seeing if that helps my brain space.

Short answer, not really? But I’m also getting better at accepting that my stuff will likely get consumed without a lot of engagement and I should focus on only doing the stuff I’ll have fun with, so I’m slowly getting there (･ω･)b

#ryuuji suguro #ao no exorcist #blue exorcist #rin okumura #bonrin #bon x rin #my tumblr fics #bonfire #sugurin #ryuujirin #aoex #aoe #asks and answers

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tshirtstores · 11 months ago

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#2024RIILMiddleSchoolSoccerStateChampionsT-Shirt

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seoworks-blog2 · 1 year ago

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taha-autoinsight-hub · 2 years ago

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Embark on the T-Cross Odyssey: A Volkswagen SUV Extravaganza! 🚗✨

Hey Tumblr fam! 🌟✨ Ever felt that surge of excitement when you catch wind of something new, something that redefines the ordinary? Well, hold on tight because we've got the scoop on the recently revamped Volkswagen T-Cross SUV, and it's not just a car; it's an experience! Buckle up, scroll down, and get ready for a ride into the future.

🌈 The Unveiling: Volkswagen's T-Cross Revamped!

The streets are buzzing with the latest automotive sensation – the upgraded T-Cross SUV from Volkswagen! This isn't your average ride; it's a fusion of sleek design, cutting-edge technology, and unbridled power. Starting at an unbelievable £23,965, this SUV promises to be the game-changer you've been waiting for.

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So, Tumblr, are you ready to answer the call of the T-Cross adventure? 🚀✨

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karamell-sweetz · 3 years ago

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Yoooooo! Any favorite Rui headcanons of things that weren't explicitly stated in-game?

hello hello hello thank you for the ask!!

i have loads and loads of rui hcs, probably so many that i can't actually list them, but here's some from the top of my head:

he has a corner in his room filled with platypus plushies. he says he's not collecting them (and he's not, nene and mizuki just keep giving him platypus plushies for his birthday and stuff) but he's accumulated quite a large number of them. eventually he starts naming them. one of them is named 'cornelius the 37th'. don't ask how i came up with that because idk either lmao

again with the platypus plushies, sometimes he takes one and puts it on his lap when he's working on robots/a new show. when he gets in a tough spot he picks it up and squishes it. usually after a few minutes an idea pops into his brain. healing plappus.

and ANOTHER ONE ABOUT THE PLAPPUS. emu accidentally gave him an otter plushie and he said "oh its okay! the platypus family can just adopt them :)" (its because of rui that i have an unbridled love for the platypus now. doesn't help that i'm australian)

i think he's a bit cuddly! (this one is me projecting) sometimes he'll come up behind his friends and just. hug them from behind and if possible rest his head on their shoulder/head. most of his friends (tsukasa, nene, mizuki) find it weird but cute. emu loves it!

(adding onto that last one. neck nuzzles. always.)

okay this next one is MAINLY the fault of @/ticklish-n-stuff (and also you. somewhat. dw that's a good thing!!) but. HE'S TICKLISH. SO TICKLISH. ticklish hands. ticklish tummy. ticklish sides of the neck. ticklish everything.

and also he can't take what he can dish out. not just in the tickle way but in like EVERYTHING. imagine with me bro: tsukasa deciding to tease him to get back at him and he. he LOOKS like he's chill about it (usual cat smile. usual 'fufufu~' laugh) but on the inside he is quaking. he goes back home that day and just lies down on the floor and starts blushing and squealing and replaying tsukasa's words in his head over and over again. it's a cycle

also relating to the above: if he gets a random gift from someone (e.g. toya giving him a share of his claw machine haul after hearing he has a platypus plushie collection) he will simply shut down. "oh... t-thank you... hehe..." as his face slowly colours. he also squeals over this sort of thing when he gets home.

girls find him cute/hot but he's really not interested. not interested as in he flings his arms around tsukasa and cuddles him at every possible moment. imagine if in-universe there's some sort of wxs fanclub online and there's an entire corner just for rui. it's funny to think about. imagine if they like him because he doesn't look like he's interested. like "*twirls hair* well you see rui is just soooooo cute/hot like have you seen him?? hes super nice but also he gives off this totally disinterested vibe which is like. sooooooo hawt. and also he's soooooooooo pretty like what's he doing here? he should be like a model or somethinggggggg"

also after kami sports fes and when people have warmed up to him more, he probably gets a lot of chocolates for valentines/white day mainly because he's pretty. but also because he's nice!

NO FASHION SENSE. mizuki and nene have to physically drag him out to the mall in order for him to get some actually good clothes.

he likes to be warm. once i read this fic about him being a "freeze baby" and honestly i thought that fit so well and then it stuck so here we are. oftentimes he can be found rolled into a blanket burrito on the floor of his room, or with a blanket draped around him if he's working on robots. he also finds tsukasa to be very warm!

he and mizuki listening to vocaloid on the rooftop. (just think about it... tying in the miku thing...) i have a feeling they might have liked neru and n-buna. both of them still like to listen to the playlist they made together when they feel out of it, makes them feel better.

as self-proclaimed chairwoman of the rui fanclub i cannot let these disappoint. hope this fuels your (our?) love for him even more!

#project sekai #karamell yells #also maybe...#karamell simps #rui kamishiro #also HI sorry this is a bit late i have too many of these for my own good

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h0tchner · 4 years ago

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go team hotchner!

pairing: dad!aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: aaron is coaching jack’s soccer game & reader is in the crowd! aaron & reader are happily married, but another woman’s mean comments and blatant flirting makes the reader jealous. fluffy shenanigans ensue!

word count: 2.5k

includes: FLUFF, jack hotchner is the sweetest, you & aaron are married, jealous!reader, kissing, family planning, & AARON IN A GREY T-SHIRT

rating: 18+ (for VERY brief mentions of sex and a little smidge of cursing)

a/n: i wrote this for @ssahotchswife’s soft hotch saturday! this is my first published fic, so i hope y’all enjoy. PLS (!!!!!!!!!!!) interact if you liked this, rb, comment, like and/or send me a request if you have ideas for future fics! i love y’all! - rivka💞

“Atta boy, Jack!” Aaron yells from the side of the field, clapping his hands as his son scores another goal.

Beaming, you holler from the benches along with the crowd. You watch as your husband jogs up and down the sidelines with ease, keeping up with Jack’s soccer team. It’s a stunning Saturday morning and you are thrilled to spend every moment of it with the Hotchner boys. Your Hotchner boys.

When they asked Aaron to coach the team, how could he say no? After losing Hayley, he promised himself that he would do everything in his power to be there for Jack. When you first started dating, Aaron was hesitant to introduce you to his son. It wasn’t because he didn’t want you in Jack’s life, but rather he didn’t want to scare you away. You were a 26-year-old NCIS agent and he was a 40-something FBI agent. You knew he had a son, you knew he was a widow, and you knew he was older than you: but you didn’t care. You loved him. It took a little coaxing to get Aaron to open up to you about his fears, but once he did, you assured him then and there that you weren’t going anywhere. He introduced you to Jack the very same day. Four years later, you and Aaron are stronger than ever.

The ref blows the whistle, calling a break. Aaron motions for the kids to huddle in. He squats on the floor to get on their level, enthusiastically whispering, walking them through the next play. Your heart swells watching him talk to the group of children. Aaron Hotchner, always the hero, the role-model, the leader. Gentle yet powerful: he was intoxicating.

Your eyes dart over his crouched figure; the soft, heather grey of his t-shirt clings to his broad shoulders. You draw in a breath, a memory of last night flooding your senses, remembering how you held on to those shoulders for dear life as he pounded you into the bed. You feel your cheeks blush red, and you look up to the sky, shutting your eyes to collect yourself. Damn. Even just the thought of touching him gets your blood up.

You open your eyes, letting your gaze travel back to Aaron’s body, admiring how good his butt looks in those black Adidas track pants. You bite your lip a bit, feeling overwhelmed with joy, knowing that beautiful man, inside and out, was all yours. God, what you wanted to do to...

“Damn he is HOT. Way hotter than the old coach. I think his son is on the team?” A woman’s voice rings out from behind you.

“Yeah, I think so. Did you hear what happened to his first wife? So sad, lost her when his son was little. Apparently he’s shacked up with some 20-something-year-old now.” A second woman’s voice chimes in.

“No way. Him? Married to that? He needs a real woman, not some child. A man that experienced should be with someone his own age. I’m gonna talk to him after the game, see what his deal is.” The first woman replies, voice dripping with venom.

“I think you should!” Agrees the second.

“Oh, I will. I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.” Snickers the first.

They both laugh as you sit frozen in your seat, blinded by a wave of anger and sadness.

Some child? Someone his own age? Their hurtful words pierce right through your heart as you furiously blink back tears.

The ref blows the whistle, and the team scatters back onto the field. The ladies cheer behind you as the game starts back up. It takes all your strength not to break down under the crushing weight of their conversation. You take in some deep breaths, mulling over their comments. You weren’t “some child!” You were a grown-ass woman! You had a job! You were a federal agent! You loved Aaron and Jack: they were your whole world!

As you continue to give yourself a mental pep-talk, the hurt begins to dissipate as you realize how stupid those woman sounded. They didn’t even know you, or Aaron, or anything about your relationship. In that moment, you tell yourself that instead of wallowing in self-doubt, you would stand up to them and make it known that you were the only one for Aaron.

Just like that: you begin to feel a bit better. You focus all your attention on Aaron and Jack, letting the game fly by. You ignore the ladies gossiping behind you, and, by the time the kids are lining up to give the other team high-fives, you had pulled yourself together and come up with a plan to put these ladies right back in their place. You just had to wait for the right time to make your move.

“Wish me luck!” squeals the first woman. You can feel her getting up from the bleachers behind you.

“Go get him, girl!” sasses the second.

You watch as the woman walks down the aisle, her straight blonde ponytail swishing as she goes. She’s wearing blue-jean shorts and a white lace top: an outfit you’ve seen before on a hundred women who looked just like her. In any other circumstance you’d applaud her efforts (girls supporting girls, right?) but this was your man she had her sights on. No way. Not a chance. She wasn’t going to lay a single pink manicured finger on him.

Aaron is talking to the ref and the other team’s coach when she taps him on the shoulder.

Oh HELL no. You think, frowning.

He turns around and gives her a small, polite smile. You can’t hear the exchange, but after a few moments, she sticks out her hand to shake his, laughing. Aaron curtly returns the shake and turns back to finish up his prior conversation; but, this time, the blonde woman puts a hand on his arm again, lightly pulling him away. Your blood begins to boil. She gestures to the pack of kids, now getting drinks and snacks from the fold-up table next to the bleachers. Aaron nods, pointing over to where Jack is standing, sipping on some lemonade. She puts her hand on his arm again and tilts her head.

You decide it has been long enough. It’s go time.

You walk down the bleachers, picking up the hem of your baby blue floral sundress so you wouldn’t step on it as you descended.

The woman is still all over Aaron, clearly flirting. Aaron’s arms are crossed over his chest, lips in a terse smile. It didn’t take a profiler to know that his behaviour screamed “get me out of here.”

You fluff your hair a bit, letting it fall loosely around your face. With confidence, your feet hit the soft grass and you head towards your husband.

“Aaron!” you call out, waving and smiling as you near him, shooting daggers at the blonde woman by his side.

The moment he sees you approaching, you watch his entire demeanour change.

“Y/N!” he grins, excusing himself from the woman.

She whips around to face you with a vengeance as Aaron scoops you up, tanned arms firm around your middle. He spins you around as you laugh, surprised, looking down at him with pure elation.

He sets you down and, before you have a chance to say anything else, grabs your face in his hands, crashing his mouth into yours. You throw your arms around his neck and card your fingers in his hair, kissing him with the same fervour.

You can practically feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. It’s hot and dominating: something about winning a game makes Aaron primal and giddy. You certainly aren’t complaining.

He breaks the kiss and lets his hands fall to your waist, squeezing lightly.

“Congrats on the win, Coach Hotchner.” You smile as you brush a lock of sweaty black hair off his forehead.

“Couldn’t have done it without my favourite cheerleader, Mrs. Hotchner.” He winks, pressing a light kiss to your forehead.

“Oh yeah?” You prod, cocking your head, looking into his gorgeous hazel eyes. “Who would that be?”

“Hm.” He pauses, looking up pensively.

He wraps his arms even tighter around your middle and dips his head down, whispering one word in your ear: “You.”

You laugh, swaying with him for a moment, capturing his lips in another kiss. As you pull apart, out of the corner of your eye you watch as the blonde woman stands frozen to the same spot, mouth agape. You smirk, feeling satisfied and self-assured knowing your little scheme was a success.

Then, like a rocket, you see Jack running towards you with a mile-wide grin on his flushed face.

“Y/N! Did you see? Did you see me make two goals?” Jack exclaims.

“Yeah buddy, I saw the whole thing!” You capture him in a bear hug, kissing the top of his head. You ruffle his hair and kneel down, looking into his soft brown eyes.

“I’m so proud of you. Did you have fun?”

“Yeah! I love soccer!” Jack nods.

“You did a great job Jack.” Aaron says, helping you stand. He wraps an arm around your waist and looks lovingly down at his son.

“You’re our soccer superstar.” You add, glancing between Jack and Aaron with unbridled joy. “Now go! Go back to your friends!” You laugh, shooing him away, back to the group of sweaty 8-year-olds and their snacks.

You stand there with Aaron, snaking your arm around his back to match his around yours. You both watch as Jack bounds off. A quick glance to the side shows that the blonde woman is long gone, probably stomping back up to her friend to whine and call you more names.

“Is she gone?” Aaron murmurs into your hair, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your head.

You stutter, “How... how did you?” You trail off in disbelief.

“Oh please,” he smirks, “I had to stop you from practically biting her head off when you walked over.”

“Aaron!” you yelp, mocking upset. “You should’ve let me at her.”

He chuckles, lips twitching into a smile as he quirks one eyebrow up. “I couldn’t have my wife fighting with the aunt of one of my players. It’d reflect poorly on me.”

“She called me a child. Said that you should be with someone your own age. I think that warrants a free pass.”

His joking manner stops abruptly at your declaration. “That’s ridiculous and you know it,” he furrows his brow, shaking his head lightly.

You reach up and run your fingers over his scrunched forehead, soothing the lines into something softer.

“I know,” you nod.

Aaron pulls you into his side, wordless. Fingers tracing lightly over your hip. You knew he was thinking the same thing: no matter what they said, you knew in your heart that you and Aaron were meant to be. Age be damned. He was yours and you were his: forever. Simple as that.

“Mmm,” you sigh, taking in the beauty of the moment. You smile at the clear sky, the fresh air, and the feeling of the man you loved, right by your side. You two watch Jack as he talks and laughs with the other kids. He looks so happy to be surrounded by them: a natural conversationalist. You can’t help but start to think about how he would be the best big brother in the whole world. It makes your breath hitch in your throat a bit.

“What is it?” Aaron gives your side a squeeze.

Of course he could sense when your thoughts began to wander. Aaron was a man of many talents.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” You look up at him with a reassuring glance, returning the squeeze.

“Y/N...” Aaron trails off, hazel-brown eyes searing into yours.

Damn your gaze, Hotchner.

You look away, letting your arm drop from his waist and move to step away a bit: he grabs for your hand instinctively, keeping you next to him. His big hands engulf your small ones, fingers entwined.

You know he is still staring at you, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him yet. Your eyes refocus on Jack.

“I was... I was thinking,” you begin. “I love you. I love you so much, no matter what anybody else says. And I love Jack like he’s my own.”

You breathed in, prepping yourself mentally for what you were about to say next.

“Jack is so good with other kids.” You continue, “He loves being social, being a teammate.”

You gather the strength to meet your husband’s famous glare.

“And watching you coach these kids? You’re so good with them, Aaron. You make every one of them feel special. You give 110% of your heart, and I am so lucky to be your co-coach in life.” You tell him in earnest.

“Aaron,” you carry on, emboldened, “I think it’s time we added a new member to the Hotchner team” you finish, searching every inch of Aaron’s face for recognition.

You watch as he takes in the information. After a few beats, it clicks.

“Y/N,” his expression softens, “Do you want to have a baby?”

You bite your lip and nod, eyes wide and hopeful.

Aaron nearly explodes with happiness; his eyes crinkle as he smiles down at you, unable to speak. And then, his warm body envelopes yours, solid but soft: unmistakably Aaron.

You let out a shaky laugh and bury your head in his neck, breathing in the smell of cologne and light sweat.

He pulls back a little, one hand tilting your chin up to look at him.

“Oh my god, Y/N,” he shakes his head in disbelief.

“Does that mean yes?” you ask, in a small voice.

Aaron laughs again, letting out a sigh. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, letting his hand linger on your cheek. You lean into his touch.

“Yes,” he says, giddy. “Let’s have a baby.”

The sound of children laughing fills your ears as you grab the back of his head and pull Aaron into a soft kiss. The kiss is full of promise: a gentle pact, sealing the deal. You and Aaron were going to have a baby. Jack was going to have a little brother or sister.

You pull away, arms still around his neck.

“I love you, Aaron.” You breathe out.

“I love you, Y/N.” He whispers back.

Nobody on this planet could shake the bond you and Aaron had. Suburban soccer moms be damned.

1K notes · View notes

orpheusterminals · 2 months ago

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he lies,

she stands.

late-light fading,

early-dark rising.

copper sky on tile,

silver earth beneath.

sparrows drift,

crows plunge.

to rest upon

to flee from.

his open palm—

his clenched fist—.

then comes the roar,

then falls the whisper.

of iron beast,

of wooden lamb.

Model T unbridled,

hand-forged plow yoked.

clattering past coal and rust,

gliding over silk and gold.

shattering calm—

sealing chaos—.

the birds, in sudden fright,

the crows, in slack repose,

take wing and vanish,

descend to dwell.

steel and sinew meet:

silk and water part:

be water to the stone,

be fire to the breeze,

yet bend the torrent back—

yet break the ember forth—.

he rises as willow drift,

he falls like anchored oak.

palms wide as heaven,

fists tight as earth.

touches the machine’s throat—

frees the spider’s web—.

crack!

silence!

the hood blooms open,

the gate locks closed.

chassis arcs skyward,

wheels sink earthward.

the Ford overturned,

the wagon upright.

its belly bared to dusk,

its crown hidden from dawn.

silence—

clamour—

only wind through girders,

only stillness in meadows,

and the empty sky where wings once rested,

and the crowded earth where feet now roam.

twelve lives wander between boar and ox,

one death stands beyond hawk and lion,

shaping each motion

fracturing every pause

into the single fulcrum,

outside the path of division,

where flesh and spirit rend steel,

where void and shadow mend silk.

under ghost-moon,

beneath sun’s flesh,

he beckons the furious chariot—

she dismisses the gentle carriage—.

hands upon its roaring heart,

feet away from its silent veins,

and stills its blood of pistons,

and ignites its flame of leaves.

then—

now—

soft as returning rain—

hard as scorching drought—.

sparrows come home,

crows depart,

settling once more

fleeing forevermore

on his outstretched hand,

on his folded arms.

the way is simple:

the path is tangled:

yield,

resist,

reverse,

continue,

rend,

sew,

restore,

fragment.

Master Kar Fu

#karfu #bell #2025 #art #martial arts

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tangibletechnomancy · 3 years ago

Text

A bit more absurdism, because one of the most important purposes of art to me is just plain unbridled silliness and AI is really fun for that.

These were also partially me testing out Karlo - I wanted to see how well it worked with absurdist prompts in natural language, comparing my results to Stable Diffusion. Stable Diffusion is...not great about understanding numbers, or composition, or how to parse a described scene, and when I do AI absurdism, I like to minimize the amount of prompt engineering I have to do to get a decent, if bizarre and wonky, result. (I have a whole Target Range of AI Wonk for this kind of thing; if it's so wonky it's incoherent that's a no-go, but if it's so perfect and polished you don't look at it and pretty immediately know This Base Image Was Made By An Inanimate Object That Does Not Understand Its Absurdity, that's a no-go too.) Craiyon is good about it - it's the continuation of an early DALL-E model after all - but it is small and limited and I've grown to prefer open-source models where available. Karlo uses the same kind of architecture as DALL-E 2, so that sounded promising and I had to play around with the demo a bit.

Just the low-res demo gave me three out of four of these and I'm going to have a lot of fun assembling this garden of absurdity in meatspace. I think I'll be having a lot of fun with Karlo.

A highly detailed digital painting of a T-rex riding a vespa through a forest of giant flowers (generated with Simple Stable)

Baroque painting of a unicorn on a skateboard in a highly detailed garden of colorful flowers

Highly detailed digital oil and airbrush painting of a jackalope with tree branches for antlers on a hoverboard in a garden of pink flowers at midnight

Highly detailed digital oil painting of an anomalocaris princess hosting a tea party in a garden of pink flowers

#ai art #wip #karlo #stable diffusion #unreality

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kate-likes-this · 5 years ago

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Pedro for Icon ElPaís (10-02/20)

By Juan Sanguino • Photographer: Danielle-Degrasse-Alston • Stylist: Warren Alfie Baker Related: photoshoot / list of articles / en Español

The first big opportunity in his career was presented in 2011, when he participated in a pilot episode of Wonder Woman for NBC, but the network discarded the series and Pedro Pascal returned to his main occupation: to play the criminal of the week in Law and Order. “That cancellation was a disappointment, of course, I wanted to work. I did not care if it was something good or bad, I just wanted to work," he recalls today from his Los Angeles home during a virtual conversation with ICON. Now Pascal plays the villain of Wonder Woman 1984, one of the blockbusters destined to return audiences to movie theaters.

How can you not believe in fate? The boy who broke his arm twice playing Indiana Jones has ended up becoming the favorite hero of kids, as the bounty hunter in The Mandalorian, his parents, as Agent Peña in Narcos, and, well, everyone's as Oberyn Martell, The Red Viper in Game of Thrones. When Pedro was little, the good guys were always white and the bad guys were Russian, Arab or Latino. The Wonder Woman 1984 villain, however, is a white billionaire played by a Chilean.

“The film is set in the United States in the eighties, which were marked by capitalism and greed. It was a tainted concept of evil. Stripped of humanity, but still absolutely attractive and alluring. People who dreamed of being rich and successful had to be salivated. It is true that at that time villains in the cinema projected a xenophobic image. Now, the white man finally can be the bad guy.”

Some already compare his character, Maxwell Lord, to Donald Trump because of that muck in this mud: Reagan's glorification of rogue moguls in America turned guys like Trump into aspirational “role models” and “glamorous stars”.

“Trump was not the core of inspiration for my character. Our costume designer's vision based on Gordon Gekko from Wall Street, American Psycho's Patrick Bateman and other suckers in expensive eighties suits. All those millionaires who hid despair, unbridled ambition and terrifying masculinity.”

If Pedro Pascal sounds like a socialist infiltrated in Hollywood it is because that is exactly what he is.

“When Reagan was elected, many people around me were frustrated that the worst forms of capitalism was winning. In my home, with refugee and socialist parents, conservatism was not demonized, but it did go against what was important to my family.”

Pascal's father, José Balmaceda, was an Allende supporter doctor who saved the life of a priest wounded by Pinochet's militia. The priest was later tortured and ended up confessing the name of his savior. When the police went to look for Balmaceda at the hospital where he worked, he took his wife and the newborn Pedro, jumped over the wall of the Venezuelan embassy in Santiago de Chile to request political asylum. Pedro ended up growing up in San Antonio, Texas, in a socialist home, but in Reagan's land. A Chilean with no memories of Chile who was called Peter in high school.

Pascal has never left the immigrant mentality behind. Even his father, who opened his practice in California, always lived in terror that at any moment everything could vanish.

“It doesn't matter who you are, how much you are working or how much you get paid. Deep down you always think that each job is the last one.“

Maybe that's why he didn't dare to move from his Red Hook, Brooklyn, hovel to a home more suitable for a Hollywood star until filming for Kingsman 2 and Narcos was over. Nor that he had spent more than a full week at his house since Game of Thrones made him the guy most people want to party with.

Pascal knew right away that Oberyn Martell, the “Westeros’ rockstar” who always seemed ready to fight or fornicate with the same bravado, was going to change his life.

“I had done a lot of castings for friends' plays, for copy factory ads or for very serious independent films that no one was going to see, while I watched how many characters that I had been about to play changed the lives of other actors. And thanks to my experience and maturity, I recognized the potential of Oberyn. I understood who he was and who he could be.”

The actor found out about the audition when one of his acting students told him that he had auditioned but had been discarded because of his youth. Pedro snapped up and must have thought, "What would Oberyn do?" So he recorded a video on his phone and sent it to his good friend, actress Sarah Paulson, who passed it on to her good friend actress Amanda Peet, who then showed it to her husband, David Benioff, one of the creators of Game of Thrones. The rest is history of television and headaches: when he was informed by the Narcos producer he was chosen to play Pablo Escobar's pursuing policeman, he accused him of making a spoiler for Game of Thrones: if Pascal had a free agenda, it is because Oberyn was going to lose his fight against The Mountain. Of course, he couldn't imagine how.

Part of that electric, lively and hedonistic energy of Oberyn comes from Pascal’s summer of 1996 he spent in Madrid, where in addition to studying, he also worked as a go-go dancer in a disco. That stay was transformative, because the actor realized: throughout his life he had had to adapt his identity with each new move, but in Madrid he felt effortlessly at home.

“I was 20 years old and I liked it so much that I almost moved. My main language is English, I have an American accent and I can pass for white. But in my house there were many cultural differences with respect to the outside world and I remember that when I was 20 years old, and arrived in Madrid, I felt very comfortable in my own skin in a way, that I had never felt anywhere else. I guess, I was not aware that I had spent my childhood and adolescence learning new ways of adapting, connecting, and learning. On the contrary, living in Madrid was organic and easy for me. I made friends right away and I felt supported.”

By the time he was 40, Pascal was already resigned to being an actor with enough odd jobs to pay the rent. According to him, his aquiline nose was a bad feature by Hollywood standards. Far from being offended or frustrated by this typecasting, he was always looking forward to it, if it translated into a new check.

“It is very strange to develop a fantasy as a child, to have the opportunity to turn it into a hobby, then to study and finally transform all that into a career. That is the bet. But my dream of becoming the next Leonardo DiCaprio died.”

He died dozens and dozens of times. So to move on, he had to accept that, at best, he was going to be an actor with a job. That was already a triumph.

“In addition, I accepted I was not qualified for anything else, I had no more skills: I had to put all my time, my energy and my concentration in being an actor and the rest in living life and having fun."

That absence of vanity lives on today, even when he's been involved in large-scale projects for five years without stopping. After Game of Thrones, he has made eight films, of which seven are action blockbusters. The wave of fame came to him when he no longer expected it but when he was well prepared to ride it. Still, every workday is a surprise and he acknowledges that what amazes him most about Hollywood is the sheer physical stamina that people have.

“Sometimes a project can look like building a city: with all the hours, all the work and energy it requires. Some people have better stamina and can get by with little sleep. That is an interesting contradiction: all the people creatively involved in a film have a special sensitivity and at the same time they have developed a very tough skin and energy to go through the physical experience of shooting it.”

Then Pascal switches to Spanish (the language he uses to confess intimacies) and explains, in a nutshell, that he is old for this shit.

“I thought I had all the energy in the world, and now, in my 40s, I see that ... wow! There are times when I don't know if I will be able to reach the goal, because my energy is not at the necessary level. But I always take it forward.”

Maybe that's why people get so high in Hollywood. Pascal responds between laughter and again in Spanish.

“I already took all my drugs very early. It is something that is already too much in the past, and in middle age a hangover is not an option. No, no, no.”

What if the other hangover, the wave of fame, runs over you?

“I was a good waiter. Not at first, because they fired me many times, but I ended up getting the hang of it,” he jokes. If the Hollywood thing doesn't go well, you can always serve drinks again. But at the moment, Pedro Pascal is the personification that American dream, although sometimes it takes a little longer to materialize. Even Ronald Reagan would be proud.

#Pedro Pascal #pp article

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whitherliliesbloom · 4 years ago

Text

in the eyes of the beholder

[ ffxivwrite2021 ] ★ [ masterlist ] ★ [ prompt #22 - fluster ]

[alphinaud/wol ] ★ [ 2,042 words ] ★ [ post-canon ]

fluster- to put into a state of agitated confusion or embarrassment

they say an artists always inadvertently pours their heart’s true feelings into their drawings.

The apartment has never been this empty - not since the day he moved in. With cardboard box towers stacked high, and a few other empty ones that have yet to be packed, Alphinaud pauses for a moment to straighten himself up and admire the empty space around him, wiping the sweat off his brows.

This has been his home for a good many years, not quite the kind that he would liken to Leveilleur manor back in Old Sharlayan where he grew up in.. but a home nonetheless- with the bonus of knowing his most trusted friends and allies are ever close by, Rising Stones being just a mere stroll away. So he cannot help but to feel a pang of sadness and longing swelling in his heart, especially as he casts a glance out the window to look upon the slow spinning aetheryte that stood in the center of Revenant’s Toll.

But, Alphinaud reminds himself, as he finally turns his gaze to look at the young woman standing upon a lalafellin stool in front of the bookcase, her arms stretched high above her head as she grabs at the rows of dust coated tomes and gives each a thorough pat and sweep with her feather duster, that the feeling was more sweet than it was bitter.

His girlfriend- or rather... his fiancée has busied herself with clearing his impressive collection of tomes and scrolls, cleaning them of months of neglect, before sorting and then packing them into the half-filled box next to her aptly labelled with a thick brush pen as ‘Books’. She’d even sorted the titles out by alphabetical order, just like he’d requested.

They’ve been packing since morning now, and he’s beginning to feel hours of prior strenuous labor catch up to him as he stretches his arms and flexes his fingers. And yet Illya seemed to be none worse for wear, for as used to physical strain and tireless work as she justifiably is.

Alphinaud takes a second to stop and stare at the woman for a fleeting moment. Her silken white hair that normally cascaded down past her shoulders and waist was now pulled up into a high ponytail and secured with a floral patterned scrunchy, her hair bopping and swaying side to side with every of her movements. Her pink overalls is stained and caked in dust, as is the once pristine white of her shirt underneath - but her dirtied wardrobe hadn’t seem to even be noticed at all, let alone bothered the woman.

And as she took her time to take a book by its spine and read the title before quickly dusting it, she’s merrily humming to the tune of an old Doman piece, volume soft and barely audible, yet soothing as her voice rose and filled the dusty air with an uplifting song.

When the young elezen man finally regains enough of his senses to snap out of his gawking, he can only twist his lips up into a bright smile before calling out her name.

“Liya.”

Her head swivels around instantly, amethyst bright eyes shimmering with immediate affection as she looks at him and mirrors his smile with her own, dazzlingly warm one.

“Yes, alphy?”

Her voice is sugar coated and dripping with sickly sweetness that he drinks up like he’s a man starved, heart soaring with an unbridled joy as he catches a glimpse of the ring on her fourth finger, a radiant crystal blossom sitting upon the painfully detailed golden band.

No matter how many times he attempts to fathom the reality of his present, there was always a more rational, disbelieving side to Alphinaud that would struggle to believe it. To fathom the great fortune he must have to be engaged to the woman he loved more than anything in the world, let alone someone who has been his biggest inspiration and source of admiration and motivation for years. And he cannot believe that he will soon be living under the same roof as her.

The Warrior of Light... soon to be his Warrior of Light. Even thinking of her as his threatens boyish laughter and cheers out of him.

Snapping out of the revelry of his daydream, Alphinaud gestures towards the metal canister next to her stool, long since emptied and left neglected with its contents drained.

“You must be tired. How about a break? I’ll refill your bottle for you.”

“No,no that’s okay-” Unsurprisingly, Illya is quick to refuse his offer with a shake of her head. “I’m not that tired. Don’t let me bother you.”

“It’s not a bother, dearest.” With a sigh, Alphinaud moves over to grab the canister, amused snicker leaving his lips when he looks down at the exasperated pout on Illya’s lips. “Let me do this much for you at least. I won’t be long.”

Ever a woman who much preferred relying on herself, it took a good many years for Illya to come to terms with accepting her own limitations and weaknesses - let alone entertaning the idea of burdening her loved ones with her troubles... no matter how trivial or small they may be.

But she’s come far - they both have... and the girl who would once stutter and burst into a blushing fluster is nowhere to be found in the presence of a older, more confident woman, who merely drops her shoulders in defeat before accepting his offer.

“If you insist, love. Make sure to refill for yourself too, okay?”

With a quick nod, Alphinaud swiftly take his own bottle before leaving the apartment before crossing through corridors past other closed doors and speed walking down flights of stairs to get to the Seventh Heaven.

Bloezoeng greets the elezen with a cheery grin, graciously refilling the two canisters full with a topping of ice cool water while making small talk, asking how the packing was going and even asking the young man to send his regards to the Warrior of Light. Nearby, the wandering minstrel sings as he strums at his harp, and Alphinaud only spares a single seconds glance towards the door leading into the back where the Rising Stones is, before leaving the Seventh Heaven, heavy and damp water canisters in hand.

Alphinaud hadn’t been lying when he said that he wouldn’t take long - it’d been a total of four minutes maximum by the time he reaches the third floor and walks down the hallway towards the only open door.

And yet when when he hears what the voice of his beloved says as he approaches the apartment, along with the tell tale sounds of sketch paper flipping, his blood runs dry in his veins and he feels himself freeze in instinctive panic.

“This book... it has no title?”

A book with no title.... Oh gods. She could only be referring to one book - the only book he’d kept purposefully hidden away on his shelf between other innocuous books for reasons unknown to all save himself. The only book with a blank cover, the only book with a well used bookmark made from a pressed lily that Illya had gifted him so many years ago slotted between its pages. A book that he had not wanted anyone to find or to see the contents of - especially not her.

“W-wait- Liya! Don’t-” He bolts into the room and drops the canisters onto the floor with a responding thud that leaves wet patches upon the wooden planks, navy blue eyes blown wide in terror. His heart pounds loudly in the confines of his tight chest, which then quickly sinks into the pits of his stomach when he stares dumbfoundedly at the lalafell and the wide opened book in her hands.

She’s staring down, speechless herself.

The pages of the book was not filled with words - but drawings. Black and white sketches created with a fine pencil and quill, soft water colored paintings that left dried patches of color upon the pages, colored line art that had been meticulously cell-shaded with an array of colored ink.

It was Alphinaud’s sketchbook- but not the one he carries in his travel bag or has laying open on his desk. He wouldn’t go through such lengths to conceal a sketchbook if it had just been that - and his dearest has always expressed how much she loved to look at his art.

But this was no ordinary sketchbook - for countless pages between the lavender purple covers of that book, marked with a bright white flower was filled with visages of the Warrior of Light - of the woman he loved.

From a quick sketch of the lalafellin woman with a stern expression as she was lost in her focus upon an embroidery hoop, a more detailed, colored drawing of her in her adventuring garments, long starlit hair radiant against a dark starry night background as she casts her eyes upwards at the sky... and a small painting of her surrounded by a sea of flowers, the gust of spring wind blowing her hair and pink dress behind her as she holds a single flower between her clasped hands as if in prayer, a serene, ethereal expression upon her face.

Illya can barely even recognize those figures as herself- is disbelieving as she flips through drawing after drawing of what was clearly Alphinaud’s favorite model in various clothing, settings and circumstances, in different mediums to boot.

But the one thing that remained a constant was the heart of the art he painstakingly filled the sketch books with, the heartfelt emotions and earnestness he must have felt as he was working on a single page.

There is a saying that says an artist will always inadvertently pour their truest, deepest feelings into the art they create - that a piece of drawing was a piece of an artist’s heart.

Illya could only wonder then, as she stares with heat pooling in her cheeks that spread rapidly to the tips of her pointed ears... what was it that Alphinaud was feeling whenever he held this sketchbook or drew within it?

What was it that he was seeing within his wide, observant eyes when he drew her? What compelled him? What will continue to compel him?

She holds his heart in her hands delicately, as if it would break if she were not careful, and slowly closes it before turning to look at the man, who has an equally, if not brighter, darker blush upon his now cherry red face.

“T-that is! I-I.... I was just- I-I-It’s not-”

Alphinaud was not often a man who got this flustered. Even when he is teased by the likes of Krile and Alisaie who threatened whenever possible and the situation was appropriate to spill unflattered secrets about his past to her, there is a sort of calm elegance to the way he’d diffuse the situation and more often than not lead her away from the two ‘gossip mongers’... as he would so eloquently put it. Though, to be fair, years of putting up with that has taught him to be a little more dexterous in navigating forbidden subjects about his time in the Studium around them.

But when the blame of the situation was nobody but his own to bear, and it involved a deeply hidden secret he’s kept for so many years from her... it’s destroyed whatever little of his poise he’s pretended to develop over the years... And Illya was absolutely the last person he wanted to have see him in such an unsightly state.

While Alphinaud attempts futilely to scrounge up a believable excuse, the lalafell has climbed down from her stool and is walking towards him.

The afternoon sky is bright, casting sunrays through the window panes and forming spotlights upon the wooden floor, as dust bunnies bounce and float carefreely around the room. Illya steps into the light, and the afternoon rays immediately reflect off her head like cut crystal... and above reddened nose are a pair of shining eyes that gaze up at him, and Alphinaud momentarily forgets to breath as she closes the distance between them and smiles delicately.

“I-If..... If you wanted me to model for you, you... you could have just a-asked me...”

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #ffxivwrite2021 #ffxivwrite #kiwisffxivwrite2021 #alphinaud leveilleur #alphinaud #illya skawi #we've come so far #mine #fanfic

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some-cookie-crumbz · 4 years ago

Note

Huwumi betting kiss in a bar?

I had way more fun writing this than I should have! Flirty Fuyumi is something I’ll have to indulge in more often!

Gonna say this is rated T/ PG 13 so behave yourselves!

Also, Minor Trigger Warning: Aggressive Swearing, References to Sexual Content (Non-Explicit), Cheating (Don’t worry; neither Hawks nor Fuyumi are involved in this one!), Of Age Binge Drinking

Every time Misa had a rough break up, Fuyumi knew that their whole group was going to end up spending a night in a bar making questionable life choices. For as much as she loved Misa, the girl did not handle her heartaches well. Fuyumi was willing to wager that it was most likely because Misa wasn’t exactly the best judge of character. Many a time, she ended up letting partners slip into her life without focusing on the glaring red flags. She’d fuss and accuse and scream at everyone else in the group that they were being unfair, that her newest sweetheart had just been mistreated and needed love to guide them back on to the proper path. Every single time, the rest of them would agree that this was the last time they were going to deal with this from Misa. If she couldn’t be bothered to listen to their concerns and cool her heels just a little, then why should they constantly dab her eyes and pat her back when her ignorance got her hurt?

Because everyone has their weak moments, just like Misa, Fuyumi thought wistfully. She sipped at the sparkling water in her hand while Taigen slipped into their booth. “Well if it isn’t my most favorite people in the world,” he said with a tired huff, slumping down beside her.

“Hey, Tai,” Akiko, sitting to Misa’s left and rubbing her back, said with a quick wave of her other hand.

“Howdy hey Tai-Kins,” Nagisa sang, her tone only the slightest bit less chipper than usual. She was on Misa’s right, gently patting her head.

Misa herself had thrown her whole upper body against the table, hiding her face in her arms, and was wailing shamelessly. A part of Fuyumi was almost jealous at how unbridled her friend was in her grief. There had only been one or two instances in her own life where she’d ever dared to make such a spectacle of herself over anything. And she learned quite quickly to never do it again.

“So what was it this time?” Taigen asked, leaning over to flag down one of the servers, and then leaning back in his seat. “What caliber of douchebag are we labeling this guy as?”

Misa let out a particularly loud, hysterical wail at the prodding, making the other’s at the table wince. Fuyumi motioned Taigen closer to whisper, “Misa-Chan caught him and Akane-Chan touching each other in places where they really shouldn’t be.” He balked and stared at her, expression jumping between horror, anger and then settling comfortably to mortification. Fuyumi couldn’t blame him, though; she had probably made very similar expressions. And she couldn’t really blame Misa for being particularly upset, either, since she didn’t think she’d feel much better if she caught her significant other getting down and dirty with one of her younger siblings.

“Okay. Wow. That’s… certainly something,” Taigen trailed uneasily.

“That filthy motherfucker!” Misa outright shrieked, causing a few patrons at the bar proper to give them a sideways glance.

“That’s right, get it all out,” Nagisa encouraged quietly.

“They’re all motherfuckers, hun,” Akiko agreed, her own tone taking on a soothing note.

Taigen made quick work of ordering their first round of drinks – excluding Fuyumi, who insisted she really couldn’t tonight – and some appetizers to get started. When the food and drinks arrived, they managed to coax Misa up enough to eat and down her first two drinks, which seemed to put her in higher spirits. They let her vent what she felt comfortable venting and took her lead on when to sidetrack to a new subject.

The distractions were clearly having a good impact on Misa as she moved on to her third, fourth, fifth and sixth drinks.

“You bastards,” Misa slurred with a small hiccup, waving her glass about in a semi-circle to indicate them all, “make it seem so easy to just meet someone! Like I can just pluck any ole’ person off the street and BAM! SOULMATE FOUND!”

“Don’t you already just pick the saddest looking sack o’ flesh outta the gutter? At least if you pick someone off the sidewalk instead they might have their shit more stitched together,” Taigen scoffed, a sly smirking taking over his face as he sipped his own drink. “Well, that or if you just gathered your courage to actually make the first move instead of waiting for these parasites to catch a whiff of your desperation.”

Akiko started to outright cackle while Misa’s face turned a much darker shade that had nothing to do with the alcohol. Fuyumi was quick to set her drink down and lift her hands, ready to step in between any ensuing fight. Nagisa took everyone else being distracted as a chance to stuff another pot sticker in her mouth. “Say that again, you angsty twink!” Misa squeaked angrily.

Taigen’s eyes narrowed, the dark blue tint of them gleaming dangerous. “What did you just call me?”

“Ya heard me!”

“Okay, Misa-Chan, Tai-Chan, how about we settle down and take a breath? We don’t ended things to esca-!”

“Sorry for giving you some practical advice, damn! Maybe if you actually listened you wouldn’t constantly be getting pumped and dumped!”

“Oh, no! Tai-Chan, that is incred-!”

“Well not all of us can hook up with some dimwit from work! Besides, a truly worthy suitor prefers a lady who waits to be chased!”

“Misa, I don-!”

“Masaki is an absolute angel and you fucking know it, you jealous little asshole! And you know what? I’m gonna prove my fucking point that your fucking point is stupid!” he snapped back, slamming a hand on the table. There was a beat of silence before he whirled his head around to face Fuyumi. “Yumi! Go over to the bar and get you a smooch!”

“What?” she squawked indignantly.

Akiko started giddily giggling into her hand. “Oh, yes, yes! It has to you, Yumi, babe!”

“But why me?” she argued. “I wasn’t even involved in their little wager!”

“But you’re the only one that’s single, aside from Misasasasauce,” Nagisa slurred, swaying a bit in her seat. “You’re the only one that can really prove Taikadaikado’s point.” She shifted the glass in her hand to take another sip but then stared at in horror as she realized it was empty.

“‘Sides, it’s good for ya!” Akiko chimed in, swaying to lean heavily on the table. She looked about to topple over at a moment’s notice.

“There’s no way for me to get out of this, is there?” Fuyumi sighed.

“Nope!” Taigen said, making a popping noise with the word as he shimmied out of his seat. He gestured grandly towards the bar across from them. “Now go, dearest Fuyumi, and find yourself a hottie to mack on! Make me proud!”

“No, make me proud, Fumi!” Misa shot back.

With a resigned sigh, she carefully slipped out of her seat and made her way towards the bar. She loved her friends, but they were ridiculous, honestly. She slid into one of the many empty seats at the bar a few spots away from a cute young woman in a halter dress, but opted against making the pass when she noticed the ring on the woman’s finger. There were mostly just groups there, all settled up together in proper booths. The only other two people that were at the bar proper were all the way at the other end from her and seemed much more focused on some hushed debate they were having. She flagged down the bartender, instead, to request a fresh water and a small bowl of cherries.

“My, what an odd order to place at a bar,” A deep voice chimed from beside her, dripping in amusement. She jumped and glanced at the young man making his way into the stool beside her. He seemed to be about her age with just the right amount of scruff gracing his jawline, baggy clothes that screamed workout attire to her, and a hat tugged down low over his head, hiding most of his hair. What caught her attention most, though, with the blazing gold eyes fixed on her like a predator on prey.

He didn’t strike her as being her usual type, but she kind of liked the way he was watching her. She admittedly did like the ones that seemed confident. Nine times out of ten they weren’t nearly as self-assured as they played at, so it was always cute watching them get flustered when she called a bluff. A smile flitted across her lips as her water and dish were set in front of her. “It’s called the Responsible Friend drink. Not for the faint of heart or low of impulse control,” she purred teasingly, plucking a cherry from the dish.

He hummed quietly beside her as he watched her split the cherry open and drip the cherry juice on top of the ice inside, being careful not to drip too much on herself. “That seems like an insult,” he hummed back.

“If you take offense,” she hummed, stirring the juice in, “that seems more like your problem than mine.”

He seemed taken aback by that, tilting his head at her curiously. “Do you… Not know who I am?”

She cocked her head and gave him a look at that. She tilted her head to try and get a better look at him, letting out a thoughtful hum. Now that she thought about it, there was something familiar about his face, but she couldn’t place it. Perhaps a model or something? Or maybe he’d had a short guest role on one of her television dramas? She shrugged instead and began dripping another cherry into her drink. “Kinda but… Not particularly. Why? Should I?”

He opened and closed his mouth a few times before shaking his head. “Actually, you know what? I like this better,” he mused, leaning one elbow on the counter and cupping his head in his hand. “So, you’re the friend staying sober? Or just keeping your wits so no creeps try to take advantage?”

Fuyumi nodded her head back towards her friends, who had seemingly forgotten their beef and were now aggressively singing some anime opening at each other, just barely keeping their volume manageable. “Those are my wards for the night,” she said.

He snorted. “You sure you don’t want something a little stronger than cherry water? Which, by the way, is still incredibly unusual. I mean, lemon water I expect, or even lime water, but cherry? Not so much,”

“But you’ve never tried it,” she retorted, taking a sip and resisting the urge to sigh contentedly. He made a small noise of agreement as a thought occurred to her, her smile turning mischievous. “I could give you a little taste if you want.”

“Oh?” he mused, perking up. He shifted a bit closer, clearly intending to swipe her glass, but instead she moved closer to him herself. He seemed a bit stunned as she leaned forward to press her lips to his, one of her hands cupping the side of his neck. The spark of surprise left his eyes quickly enough as he melted into the kiss with a throaty groan, instead sliding shut to bask in it. She tilted her head to give a playful nip to his lower lip. Getting the hint, he opened his mouth and allowed her tongue to slip inside, prodding his to press along her own. The taste of spearmint from his mouth mingled with the cherry juice on her tongue, making for an odd but not entirely unpleasant combination.

It was the scandalized squeals of her friends that pushed her to pull away from the stranger, making a show of smirking and licking her lips at him. There was a blush dusting up along his cheeks and, if she was honest, she couldn’t help but think about how good he looked like that. “There, I gave you a little taste. Maybe we’ll see each other again, sometime,” she hummed, grabbing her drink and cherries to head back to her table. She would blame her behavior, uncouth as it was, on the energy her friends had been pumping out all night. Plus, she reminded herself, she was likely never going to see the guy again. Despite what he’d said, she doubted that he was anyone that noteworthy.

Three days later, Fuyumi’s heart leapt into her throat when, grinning up at her from glitzy headlines about Number Three Pro Hero Hawks, was her bar stool beau.

#crumbles grumbles #Huwumi #my fics #I hope this was a fun one!#I actually struggled a little to get this to work #But man am I really happy with how it turned out!

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pluto-art · 5 years ago

Text

Syncytium - Chapter 4

Title: Syncytium - Chapter 4 - Fateful Trips Words: 8,571 Rating: T

Fan Fiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13712482/4/Syncytium

Per the norm, I recommend the fan fiction version, which includes all accentuated bits. This has probably been my favorite chapter to write so far. :)

September 17th, 1993 - 6:03 AM

A spillage of numbers, symbols, and complicated algorithms flowed across the outdated monitor, a furious tap, tap, tapping of a keyboard a musical accompaniment to the madness. In the background, something beeped steadily, one high-pitched ding after another knocking at the air every two seconds. Several bottles and beakers hung suspended by their necks in a wooden tray off to the side, their liquid contents bubbling and boiling incessantly, all of them different colors of the rainbow - cinnamon, emerald, lilac, and azure. Rows and rows of books, large dusty tomes neighbors with fresh dainty novels, stood side-by-side within the innards of several tall, mahogany shelves set against the back wall. Still more shelves, steel-coated instead, lay strewn throughout the room, these ones encasing not just books, but various scientific tools, as well as cups of pens and pencils, tape, notebooks, and an assortment of other things. The entire room was dark and foreboding, the occasional dim ceiling light and desk lamp adding limited warmth to the place, with the two computer monitors shedding their own ghostly glow about the room. Piles of notes and here and there a forgotten and empty (and sometimes half-full...) coffee mug lay about on the computer desks, and there were probably more calculators - all different shapes, sizes, and models - tossed about than was necessary. It was an organized mess.

But it was his organized mess.

Globetrotter scribbled something down on a yellow notepad to his left, his right paw firmly planted on a computer mouse to his right. Light from the monitor reflected off his half-moon glasses, which tottered dangerously close to the edge of his nose. He swiftly pushed them back up onto the bridge.

Tap, tap, tap...

More typing. More note-taking.

"Yes...," he whispered to himself, the beginnings of a grin climbing up onto his face. "Yes!"

He slammed a finger down onto the 'Enter' key, and a train of calculations ran across an invisible track on the monitor, finally ending in a result that was much to his satisfaction. Globetrotter smirked deviously.

"Heh heh heh. Ohhhh, my friend. Are you in for a treat."

Just then, his eyes went wide, ears drooping suddenly.

"Uggggh," he groaned, setting down his glasses as he ran towards a heavy steel door, punched in a code on a panel set in the wall, and flew out of the room as the door slid open. When it closed behind him, it melded into the wall so well that no one would be able to tell one way or another that a secret laboratory lay hidden on the other side.

Down a long, dimly-lit hallway he ran, his shoes clapping loudly against the smooth concrete floor, 'til he reached an elevator. He slammed his paw on the only button set in the wall - UP.

"Come on, come on...," he muttered, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. He allowed himself this - this undignified form of behavior, rocking back and forth like an absolute child. It was something he'd never succumb to in public, but here there was no one to see, not even any cameras. He'd shut them off long ago, knowing full well that no one would ever bother to monitor the basement. No one but him ever graced this area anymore.

After a full half a minute, the elevator finally descended.

Ding.

Globetrotter bolted into it as the doors opened, punching the 'Floor 1' button with unbridled voracity as he clutched at a spot near his crotch, face scrunched in discomfort. His head hung, an extended paw resting against the elevator wall as it ascended. He groaned. This was most undignified.

No sooner had the doors laid entrance to the first floor than Globetrotter shot out of the elevator like a bullet, practically skidding into the men's bathroom that, thankfully, was literally right across from the elevator. It was a shoddy design, but it worked well for him.

He practically knocked the door off its hinges as he barged inside, taking an extra two seconds to select the furthest stall from the entrance as he ran in, slammed the door shut, shakily undid his belt, and slammed his butt resolutely down on the toilet... and released.

He said a silent prayer of thanks that no one was in the bathroom to hear the sounds reverberating off the walls. It was embarrassing enough to deal with bowel issues, but for explosive diarrhea to come along with it every now and again was the icing on the expired cake. Most in the university knew about his issues. How could he avoid it? The students expected him to take a sudden pause during his sessions every once in a while. If anything, they welcomed it; less Globetrotter meant more time to goof around and breath without fear of being told off or sent to detention. And he'd learned to simply... deal with it. Rarely did the whispers come, and there was always at least one veteran student in his class to inform the newer sets about his strange, frequent disappearances. But it still bothered him a little; made him feel weak. Bested by his own bowels. Ridiculous.

Globetrotter breathed a sigh of relief as he let the last of it out, quickly regretting his next deep intake of air as he slapped a hand across his nose and mouth in disgust. Ugh. That was a smell that would linger.

Finishing up, he flushed the toilet (it actually went down this time, thank God...), washed his paws, and exited the bathroom, grateful that he didn't meet anyone on the floor on his way back to the elevator. Not that he would. Early morning wasn't exactly a time for many staff and students to be active. Nevertheless, he checked his watch as he shuffled down the hallway. 6:17 AM. Class would be starting in just a little over an hour. Perhaps he should abandon his private endeavors until a later time? He fixed to head to the second floor until he remembered he'd left his glasses in the lab. Groaning, he stepped into the elevator, pressed 'B', and headed back down to the laboratory.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

1:54 PM

The day passed without much deviation or interruption in anyone's schedule, save for a light altercation in which someone accidentally set fire to the kitchen microwave... somehow. Olivia was still collecting signatures on her excursions down the hallways and into the cafeteria during lunch time. She even took to staking a spot outside some of the classrooms when she knew a session was about to end, clipboard in hand and pen out, ready to attack any unsuspecting student or teacher. It annoyed some, but most took it as an opportunity to amuse the little mouse. Even the stiffest of teachers found it hard to dislike Olivia, save for Globetrotter. Even Basil was starting to warm up to her, especially after she complimented him on his magnificent violin playing, although he still wouldn't sign her petition.

"How many signatures do you have, Olivia?" Mrs. Brisby asked that afternoon, tossing the girl mouse a light smile as she stepped into her classroom, lunch bag in hand and carrying bag slung over her shoulder. Brisby always brought her own food.

"Fifty-four!" piped the girl, adjusting her tam-o-shanter as it fell down over her eyes. "And Mr. Pinky said that if I get to two hundred, we can show it to the principal and get a baseball stadium!"

"Hm. Is that so?" Brisby asked, still smiling as she set her bags down on the cherrywood table and unloaded several books onto it.

"Mmhm! Well... Maybe. He has to approve it first. That's what Mr. Pinky said."

"Well. I don't think that will be too hard. All you have to do is smile at him," Mrs. Brisby said, pinching Olivia's cheek. Olivia giggled. "Here: Something for Mr. Pinky." And she handed her a bright, reddish-green apple. "Just make sure to tell him Brisby sent it. I'm experimenting with a different species in my garden and would like some opinions. Oh, and here's one for you, too."

"Thank you!" Olivia said, pocketing both apples, one on each side of her coat. "Bye!"

"Bye bye now!" Mrs. Brisby said cheerily, waving at her.

Olivia skipped with delight down the hallway, for once not calling out for signatures. It was almost 2:00 PM and she had a very important appointment to catch. As she cantered down the hall, waving to Dr. Dawson as he passed by, not waving to Mr. Globetrotter as he passed by, she hummed a little tune, pondering what wonders might await her in Mr. Pinky's class this time.

I wonder if he'll talk about the planets? Or if we'll go on a mystery adventure! Maybe we'll build a roller coaster in the classroom... or fly to the moon! Oh, I do hope he has a cooking show this time. That would be lovely.

Her head was so full of thoughts that it completely clouded her vision - she didn't even see Mr. Pinky coming right towards her...

"Oof!" they both exhaled, shaking their heads and chuckling as they recognized whom they'd bumped into.

"Oh! Olivia!"

"Hello, Mr. Pinky!"

"Say, um, do you know how to get to my room?" Pinky asked, picking up a little case that he'd dropped. It looked like an old-fashioned medical bag. "I came into the school from a different side this time and got a little turned around! Heh heh."

"You mean you... don't know where your own classroom is?" Olivia asked.

"Well, it's a big school! Even teachers get lost sometimes!" At this, he bent down to Olivia's level, cupping a paw against his mouth as he continued in a whisper. "But don't tell them that. I think they'd be offended!"

Olivia giggled.

"Come on. I'll show you to your room, oh lost Mr. Pinky. Oh. And this is for you."

She handed him one of the apples Mrs. Brisby had handed her, taking a bite out of the other for herself.

"Why, thank you!" Pinky said, soaking his teeth into it happily.

And with that, they headed off, Olivia leading the way and occasionally throwing out a factoid here or there.

"I know every hallway in the school!" she said happily. "That way goes down to Bernard and Bianca's class." They climbed down a flight of stairs to land on the second floor, passing more hallways as they continued on. "And that one hallway goes all the way down to the nurse's office. That's where Mrs. Judson and I are! Oh, and that's the hallway that goes to the principal's office. But don't go down there. He's mean..."

Pinky took note of all of this in his head; or, at least, he tried to. Facts tended to flit in and out of his inner cavity a lot more often than he liked to admit, unless it was something he considered to be very important. He tried his best to tie down all of what Olivia was telling him to a particularly heavy, imaginary rock. Remembering who was who in the school was, indeed, rather integral information. What if he ever wanted to give Mr. Bernard and Mrs. Bianca a gift, but forgot their names or where they set up shop? What if Olivia needed someone to go with her to talk to the principal about looking over their petition? Even more important, what if a student in his class got hurt and he needed to alert the nurse? Very important, indeed.

Please, don't forget this time, okay? Pinky thought to himself privately. Please... He couldn't afford to. Not again...

They ran into Basil as they turned a corner. The faintest hint of a smile flashed across his face as he saw Olivia.

"Good morning, Mr. Basil!" Olivia piped up, stopping to greet him.

"Hello, Ms. Flangerhanger," he replied, riffling through a sheet of very important looking papers.

Olivia chuckled and shook her head. He could never get her name right.

"It's Flaversham, Mr. Basil."

"Mmhm," he mumbled, not looking at her. "I take it you're on your way to the nurse's office?"

"Actually, I'm helping Mr. Pinky find his class."

Olivia motioned for Basil to bend down to her level, which he obliged to, albeit reluctantly.

"He tends to get lost," she whispered into his ear.

"Is that so?" Basil queried, standing up straight again to take a closer look at this Mr... "Pinky, was it? You're... new here, are you not?" he asked, licking a thumb before riffling through his papers again.

"That's me!" Pinky acknowledged cheerily. "And Olivia's being such a help."

"Is she still going on about that ghastly petition?" Basil asked, although not entirely unkindly; it was almost playful.

"Yes! Will you sign it?" Olivia asked, not at all perturbed by Basil's mock reply, as she held the petition high up the air towards Basil's face, which, due to her height, wasn't very high at all. Even on her tippie toes she barely reached his chest.

Basil looked over at her and actually smirked.

"No," he said, giving a rather toothy, sarcastic grin before wandering off. "Good day to you both."

"Hm. He's a little stuck up, isn't he?" Pinky asked, staring after Basil curiously as he disappeared around the corner.

"Oh, don't mind Mr. Basil. He's quite nice when you get to know him. Come on! Let's go find your class room. We're late!"

And with that, Olivia took hold of Pinky's hand and led him onward down the hallway.

They passed Globetrotter as they reached the bathrooms. Pinky wrinkled his nose a little as the door swung shut behind the disgruntled teacher. Great swollen socks. It smelled as if something had died in there. Nevertheless, Pinky smiled and waved as he stomped by.

"Afternoon, Brain!"

Globetrotter shot him a nasty look, adjusting his pants and wincing as he did so. Pinky cocked an eyebrow in concern.

"Let's go," Olivia said in a hushed tone, pulling Pinky forward and past the restrooms.

Not ten seconds later, they reached his classroom. They were late. Not that it mattered. In truth, no one had yet signed up for Pinky's class, even though it had been a little over a week since he'd set up shop. Although many in the school talked about looking into the Trozology course, none had actually committed. Besides a majority of the pupils having very busy schedules that didn't allow for much free time, the main excuse, besides the nature of the class being rather oblivious, was concern that it would disappoint. It wouldn't be the first time a new teacher had come to town, toting with them the promise of a particularly interesting course, only for it to fall flat on its face and disappear or fade into obscurity a year later. "Someone," the students said, "has to take the plunge - take one for the team - and try Mr. Pinkus's class out to see if it's legit." Everyone was pushed to do so; henceforth, no one did. Only Olivia came to call now and again, and whenever she happened upon him he was either watching television, acting out some wild and wacky skit (which, unfortunately, she always caught the tail end of), or, on one rare occasion, sitting at his desk reading and staring at his family portrait longingly. Olivia just assumed that she always missed his busy class times. How could someone so fun not have any students?

"Hmm. Are all your students late, Mr. Pinky?" Olivia asked, looking up at him curiously as he opened the door to... an empty classroom.

"Hm? Oh no! No, not at all. I just... don't have any students yet! Ha-ha. You're the first, actually," Pinky said, as he set his medical bag down on the desk and pulled out several items: a can of tuna, a HUGE block of cheese wrapped in non-stick parchment paper, a notepad, a couple of pens, and... a Gilligan's Island tape. "Got tired of the old ones," he winked at Olivia, answering her silent question as he set the tape down amongst his snacks and office supplies.

"Are you going to watch it?" Olivia asked, curious eyes barely able to see over the top of Pinky's desk, her little paws stretching to grasp at its edges.

"We caaaaaaaaan," Pinky teased. "But only if you'll share this cheese with me!"

Olivia gasped.

"Really?!"

Five minutes later saw them both sitting on hard plastic chairs in front of the wheel-in tv, munching on cheese and occasionally busting out in a fit of laughter at some silly antic that one of the cast members pulled. Olivia had already decided that this was her all time favorite show, even though she'd barely seen one episode.

"Mr. Pinky? Why don't you have any students?" she asked rather randomly during a pause in the show.

"I suppose it's because no one's signed up yet!" Pinky said, all optimism.

"Ohhhh. When will they sign up, do you think?"

"I don't know, actually. But they'll come!"

Olivia smiled. He seemed so certain that she couldn't help but believe him. She took another bite out of her American Cheddar.

"I'm gonna tell all my friends about your class," she mumbled thickly through a huge mouthful of cheese. "Then everybody will come, and they'll all sign up!"

"Awwww. Thank you, Olivia!" Pinky smiled, giving her a snug side hug. "I'd like that very much!"

"Hee hee. You've got crumbs all over your cheek, Mr. Pinky," Olivia chuckled, reaching up to brush the wayward crumbs off the sides of his mouth. He smiled at her. She smiled back. Without saying anything more, she hugged him back, both of them munching on cheese as they giggled and guffawed at the rest of the show.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

September 21st, 1993 - 5:32 PM

Olivia was true to her word. Anyone who was anyone was invited to enroll in Pinky's class. In Olivia's eyes, that included her best friends, her parents, a few of her favorite teachers and other staff at the school, and Mrs. Judson. All invitations were turned down; all but three.

As it happened, Mrs. Brisby was close neighbors with Olivia, her father, and Mrs. Judson. This meant that Olivia had friends her age to play with: Timothy and Cynthia, to be exact, two of Brisby's four children. Cynthia was a little younger than her brother or Olivia, by about three years, but wherever Timothy went she had to follow, and so Olivia got two attendees for the price of one. The third was Evinrude, a mute dragonfly and friend of Bernard and Bianca. He was something of a loner, but took to scouting about the city and popping in on activities that interested him. Like Olivia, he sometimes reported news, sending letters from one neighbor to another in their little district and occasionally pausing to watch the kids at play. He pretended not to care, but Olivia secretly liked to think that he cared very much and kept an eye on them on purpose, as a sort of guardian. So when he happened to flit by as Olivia passed out verbal invitations to Timothy and Cynthia, she invited him, too.

No can do, Evinrude might have said, shaking his head. He flattened one little outstretched hand, palm down, and made a waving motion with the other in front of it.

"Busy?" Olivia asked, hands on her hips. "But you're always busy!"

"You should come, Evinrude," Timothy agreed in his delicate voice, little Cynthia peeking out shyly from behind him. "Might be fun."

The little dragonfly rolled his eyes at them.

"We're all going to his class tomorrow. I'm sure he'd love it if you came!" Olivia said, handing Evinrude a small card, which he accepted.

He cocked an eyebrow at the card, then looked back at Olivia, then at the card again. She'd actually taken the time out of her day to hand-make little business-card-sized invitations for everyone. Impressive. The card he was handed read thus:

New Class! with teacher Pinky!

ACME Arts and Scienses Berbank, Californeea 90095

2:00 Wendsday, September 22

Evinrude cocked an eyebrow at Olivia again. She was staring at him expectantly.

"And you'd better not be late, hmm?" she teased, trying to sound at least a little bit serious.

Evinrude shook his head, looking off into the distance.

"He's going to have snaaaaaaaacks," sung Olivia, batting her eyes at him pleadingly.

At this, Evinrude looked back at her in interest. If there was one thing they found equal footing on, besides being delivery hands of course, it was a fondness for food. He bopped his head lightly here and there, indicating that maybe, just maybe, he'd show up.

"Excellent! I'll see you tomorrow!" Olivia beamed, leaving Evinrude to shake his head one last time before flying off, card still in hand.

"Ohhhh, I don't think he'll there...," doubted Cynthia in her tiny little voice, finally emerging from behind her brother's back to stare at Evinrude as he flew off into the sunset.

"He will. You'll see," Olivia said, confident as anything as she sat down in the street to help Timothy assemble a small bug-catching kit.

"He'll eat all the food," Timothy pointed out, snapping two parts of the kit together.

Olivia drew her attention away from the bug kit to whip out a bright red pencil and piece of paper from her pocket, which she slapped down on the ground and began scribbling away on furiously.

"I know. That's okay. I just want him to spread the word."

"The word?"

"Mmhm. When he sees how fun Mr. Pinky's class is, he'll report it to everyone in town!" she said, finishing up her drawing and whipping it up in front of her face in a flourish to show it to Timothy. Embedded in the paper lay a very crude child's drawing of Pinky, stick-figure-like, his paws outstretched as he shouted 'Yay!' amidst scores of little star-like fireworks. "And then he'll always have a full classroom!"

/\/\/\/\/\/\

September 22nd, 1993 - 2:10 PM

Two o'clock came swift and sharp at Acme Arts and Sciences, but not swiftly enough for the kids. Olivia, Timothy, and Cynthia all waited against Pinky's classroom door, looking a little anxious. Olivia had managed to get a pass for her friends to enter the school for a couple of hours, thanks to Mrs. Judson, but it still felt a little awkward. Cynthia, being only four years old in mouse years, got bored easily, and Timothy was running out of ways to keep her occupied. They hadn't brought any puzzles or coloring books or board games, Olivia insisting that they wouldn't need them; Pinky's classes provided enough entertainment on their own. But it was 2:10 and he still hadn't shown up yet. Had she gotten the day wrong...?

Timothy picked carefully at a loose thread on his jeans. He'd need to sow that later.

"He's taking a while, isn't he?" he asked, looking tired.

"He probably got lost in the school again...," Olivia offered, ears drooping under her fat tam-o-shanter.

Timothy had managed to occupy Cynthia with a game of Jacks he'd brought, but he knew that it would only entertain her for so long. Already, she was starting to get bored of the bouncing ball, which kept rolling off to a far part of the hallway where either she or one of the others had to go up and get it.

A minute passed.

"Maybe we came on the wrong day," Timothy offered, trying to sound sympathetic despite his fatigue.

Olivia said nothing.

Five more minutes tip-toed by, one slow step at a time. Olivia pulled her legs up closer to her chest despite the heat. Were the hallways always this hot..? Maybe someone left the air on too long...

Timothy had shuffled a little, and was looking suspiciously as if he was about to get up and leave, when suddenly, from around the corner, Mr. Ronald Pinkus came flying, rolls of posters tucked up under his arms and sweat flying from his brow. It was unfortunate that the Jack ball rolled out of Cynthia's grasp right at that moment. It was even more unfortunate that it was Pinky's foot that found it.

"Sorry, kids, I- ARGGHHHHHH!"

Down he went... ZIP! ... crashing to the floor in a heap, posters flying everywhere.

"Are you all right, Mr. Pinky?!" Olivia asked, flying up onto her feet and rushing to Pinky's side. Timothy and Cynthia also stood, the older brother taking the initiative as he stepped up to peer at Mr. Pinky, a little concerned.

Pinky groaned, eyes rolling. After a few seconds, he propped himself up tenderly, shaking his head to rid himself of the little brie cheeses now dancing around him. Olivia held his head gently as Pinky rubbed at his neck.

"That looked nasty," Timothy said. "You need an ice pack?"

"You keep an ice pack in your backpack?" Olivia asked.

"No. But my Mum probably would make me if I could..."

"I'm all right! Ha-ha. Just broke a bone is all," Pinky grimaced, trying to look cheerful.

"You broke a bone?!" Olivia exclaimed.

"Ohhhhhh...," seconded Cynthia, hiding behind her brother again.

Pinky pulled out from under him something wrapped in a white napkin. Opening it up, he dangled from his fingers a broken chicken wing.

"Ohhhhh... you killed the chicken!" gasped Cynthia, covering her eyes.

"My lunch. Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Chicken Wing. I'll make it up to you, I promise!" Pinky lamented.

"Sorry about your lunch, Mr. Pinky," Olivia said remorsefully, head hanging.

"It's all right, Olivia. No harm done," Pinky assured her, lifting up her chin and giving her an encouraging smile. She couldn't help but smile back as Pinky sat up proper and gathered up his things, the kids helping him. "Now, who are these lovely people?"

"This is Timothy, and that's Cynthia. She's his little sister," Olivia pointed out helpfully, picking some of the dropped posters up off the floor.

"Nice to meet you!" Pinky said cheerily, shaking Timothy's hand and offering a paw to Cynthia, who nervously declined.

"Nice to meet you, Sir," Timothy replied, perhaps a bit too opulently. "Olivia says you're quite the showman."

"Well, she would know," Pinky chuckled, taking the remaining posters from Olivia with a nod of thanks. "And there's more where that came from!"

He opened the door to his classroom, flicking the light on as he entered. A bulb popped out as Olivia stepped in after him. Pinky looked up at it curiously.

"Hm. Will have to get that fixed then," he said, setting his things down on the table.

Timothy slowly tip-toed inside, taking in the very plain sights and the very unusual smells (Gouda, some sort of leathery cologne, and was that... radish?), with Cynthia following behind him at a cautious pace. She didn't much care for the radish smell and wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant scent. Timothy, however, drank it all in. He rather thought it was an interesting blend of eclectic aromas and savored every one, eyes closed as he deeply inhaled, the whisper of a smile on his lips.

"What are we doing today, Mr. Pinky?" Olivia asked, already by his side as she eagerly looked up into his face.

"Well, Miss Olivia, we are going to go on an adventure!" he said, unraveling one of the big, thick posters with a flourish.

Olivia gasped excitedly, and Timothy's ears flicked as he looked over at Pinky, intrigued.

"What kind of an adventure?" asked Timothy.

"You'll seeeeeee!" Pinky winked. "Help me put these posters up, everyone!"

And so they each grabbed a poster, save for Cynthia. She still wasn't quite ready to make friends yet. Everyone picked a random portion of wall upon which to paste their sizeable poster, but it became apparent, after a few failed attempts to open up what kept wanting to roll back closed, that something was missing.

"Mr. Pinky?" Olivia mumbled, struggling a little as a large roll of poster traveled down the wall she was attempting to lay it onto and bumped into her face, ruffling her whiskers. She sneezed. Even the posters had a smell: tomato, with a hint of garlic. "Aren't we supposed to have something to keep the posters up on the wall?"

"I concur," groaned Timothy, having just as bad of a time as Cynthia. He eventually gave up, letting the poster fall... right onto his little sister. She squeaked. "Oh. Sorry, Cynthia," he apologized, plucking it off of her as she shook her head of the smell, although this one she rather liked.

"Ohhhhhhhh. That's what I was forgetting!" Pinky exclaimed, chuckling to himself. "Just a moment!"

And he ran back to his medical bag, dug around in it, and pulled out a small clear case filled with push-pins. He set it down on a nearby chair, the better for smaller mousies to reach.

"Here ya' go!" he offered, taking a few in his paw and returning to his poster.

The kids ran over to take a look. There were many push-pins, all different colors of the rainbow: blue, purple, yellow, green, pink, white, and more. Olivia thought they were quite pretty to look at. Even Cynthia couldn't help but step forward to take a closer look at the dazzling arrangement.

"Ooooo. Pretty!" she remarked, stretching out a paw to grab a handful.

"Hold up, Cynthia," Timothy said, throwing out an arm. "Those are sharp on the end. You don't want to get hurt."

Cynthia's ears drooped at this.

"Here. I'll pick four out for you. Hold out your paw. Come on."

Cynthia did as she was told. Timothy picked out and set gently in her hand four differently colored push-pins - violet, turquoise, sunshine-y yellow, and ivory. The youngest mouse's eyes went wide.

"Be careful with them, okay?"

"Okay," Cynthia mumbled, only partially listening. They were all so pretty. She wanted the whole case.

Push-pins in hand, the quartet found it much easier to hang up the posters. Not all stood at the same height, as the kids had to use chairs to get them at least high enough that the poster bottoms wouldn't lay out on the floor, but Pinky didn't seem to mind. He was just happy to have company, as were the kids. They talked about their posters as they put them up, and after fifteen minutes of pushing and pinning, they could admire their work.

Sixteen posters wrapped around the classroom, painting the walls with numerous vacation spots, national landmarks, and beautiful landscapes. Some featured tall waterfalls splashing down into azure blue pools below; others seemed lost in a lush rainforest decorated with vibrantly-patterned butterflies; but most of them highlighted the beach. There were posters of alluring islands, sandy California backdrops, and palm trees set against brilliant sunsets. It was enough to make anyone want to jump into one of those appealing vistas right then and there and float away - get lost in paradise.

"What now, Mr. Pinky?" Olivia asked, voice drowning in excitement and anticipation. Whatever came next, it had to be good.

"Nooooooow," prefaced Pinky, flashing his toothy grin, "We get out the boat!"

And from a far corner of the room, he pulled a large cardboard box; just big enough for all four of them to sit rather uncomfortably in. Pinky initiated, setting the box in front of the desk and jumping inside of it.

"Come on, everyone!" he encouraged, motioning them with a hand to join him.

"Woo! Yes!" Olivia exclaimed, hopping in and sitting down between Pinky's legs without a second thought. "Come on, guys!" she called to the others.

Timothy looked a little suspicious. He walked all the way around the box, inspecting it inside and out, before standing in front of it, arms folded, and tossing a very questioning glance indeed at the mice.

"You sure?"

"Absolutely!" Pinky confirmed. "Come on! You're gonna miss all the fun!"

"Yeah, come on, Timothy! It won't hurt," Olivia reassured him with a helpful smile.

"I'm not scared," Timothy admitted, squishing in to sit, a little cramped, in front of Olivia as he said it.

Only Cynthia remained. Timothy reached out both arms for her.

"Come on, silly," he invited, but she remained suspicious. Two little paws crawled up over the edge as she took a peek inside.

"Is it going to hurt?" she asked.

"Olivia just said it wouldn't, so come on," prodded Timothy again, and this time she slipped into his arms, taking a spot on his lap as she looked around, a bit nervous.

"All right, kids. You ready?" Pinky asked.

"Ready!" Olivia replied.

"Ready... I think." Timothy responded.

Cynthia said nothing.

"Alllll right. Start rowing!" Pinky commanded, and he began rowing the make-shift "boat" with imaginary oars, Olivia following suit, with Timothy hesitantly joining in a few seconds later. Cynthia simply sat there on her big brother's lap, giggling a little as she watched them all row.

"Okay. Now, clooooooose your eyes...," Pinky instructed. They all obeyed. Well, almost all... "Aaaaaand... OPEN THEM!"

They did as he was told... and GASPED.

No longer were they on the floor of an abandoned school classroom, sitting in a cardboard box surrounded by promises of tropical get-a-ways painting the walls. They were actually on the ocean, nestled inside a little white dinghy boat, and encompassed about by skies of deep blue, orange, and pink, with picturesque clouds completing the image. To their port and starboard sides, dolphins leapt gaily along with them, and in the distance, straight ahead of them, lay a magnificent island, decorated elaborately with all manner of palm trees, and promising a very grand adventure indeed.

Olivia clapped and cheered, bouncing up and down in her seat in pure ecstasy.

"I told you! I told you! He's a magician!" Olivia told Timothy with great exuberance, Pinky chuckling behind her as he continued rowing.

Timothy's mouth was agape in pure wonderment, his eyes as wide as saucers. How... was this possible? He said nothing as he stared all about him, head turning this way and that to take in the sights, sounds, and smells surrounding him, bombarding his senses, practically lifting him off his feet.

"Wow...," he finally breathed out, a smile crawling up his face. "This is so high..."

"Come again..?" Pinky asked, his ears dropping alarmingly as he slowed down his rowing to stare concernedly at the boy.

"Huh?"

"This is so... what?"

"Oh. High. Like... way up high? Like when you're up at the top of a tall tree and feel like you're flying? It's cool."

Pinky chuckled. He couldn't help it.

"You might want to use a different word when around adults there. Just sayin'."

Timothy cocked an eyebrow at him, but didn't say anything against it. He simply shrugged.

Cynthia was the only one of the set who hadn't yet found the wonderment in the situation. As far as she could see, they were still in the same box on the same floor in the same classroom. They were all cuckoo.

"What are you guys talking about? I don't see anything!" she complained, turning this way and that on her brother's lap in the hopes that she might catch a glimpse of a seagull or a dolphin.

"That's because you didn't close your eyes, Cynthia," Timothy said matter-of-factly.

"Yes. You have to close your eyes!" concurred Olivia.

"Close your eyes, Cynthia, and only open them when I say!" Pinky said.

"Okay...," said Cynthia, doing as she was told.

"All right... Aaaaaaaaaand... OPEN THEM!"

Cynthia opened her eyes.

"Woooooooooaaaaaaaaaaah...!"

"Told you!" Olivia beamed, giggling.

"Are we on the ocean..?!" Cynthia gasped, jumping a little as a dolphin flew out of the water right next to them, diving back in with a splash and spraying them all with sea droplets. They shook their fur, laughing.

"We most certainly are! Do you like it?" Pinky asked, just a tinge of uncertainty peppering his tone.

Cynthia had to think about this for two whole seconds. Then she blurted out her answer.

"YES!"

Pinky smiled.

"Are we going all the way to that island?" Olivia asked, pointing to the floating figure seemingly miles ahead of them.

"You betcha! And we'll need music to do it."

Out of nowhere, he pulled out a small boombox, clicked "Play" on the top for the CD player, and out belted a familiar tune. Both Pinky and Olivia started singing it right away, with Timothy and Cynthia joining in to hum along with the tune.

Just sit right back, And you'll hear a tale, A tale of a fateful trip, That started from this tropic port, Aboard this tiny ship...

At the start of the music, the boat zoomed off of its own accord towards the island, powered by the wind, the sea, and the song.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

4:00 PM

The kids left classroom 210 with spirits high and hearts glowing. Olivia thanked Pinky over and over again, Timothy was still commenting on how their adventure felt like something right out of a movie, and Cynthia lamented that she couldn't keep the little hulu skirt she'd strung. One's imagination, it seemed, could only take things so far. Nothing they physically created in the classroom could be brought outside of it. Once they stepped off the island, all manner of sun, sea, and sand was gone, including anything they'd gathered or made on the island. The box was just a box; the floor just a floor; the posters just posters. It was as if none of it had ever happened. But the memories remained.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Pinky!" Olivia thanked him for the thousandth time. "I'll bring more next time!"

"No worries, Olivia! Shall I put you all down on my class list then?" Pinky asked, whipping out a clipboard, complete with paper and pen, and holding the pen at the ready.

"Yes, please! You're coming again, right?" she asked her friends.

Timothy thought for a moment. As exciting as it all had been, one had to be practical, after all; at least, Timothy did.

"Well, as long as our Mum says it's all right, then I suppose that would be fine," he conceded, smiling. "I'll go ask her. I think she's working today."

"Oh, please, can we? I wanna go back to the island!" Cynthia squeaked, bouncing up and down as she pulled at Timothy's shirt sleeve.

"We will, as long as Mum says it's okay."

"We'd better go. Will we see you tomorrow, Mr. Pinky?" Olivia asked hopefully.

"2:00 o'clock sharp," Pinky said, winking at her.

Off they went, leaving Pinky behind to stare after them fondly. He smiled and went back into his classroom, closing the door behind him with a soft snap.

"So what do you think?" Olivia asked as the three kids headed down the hallway.

"I like him!" Cynthia piped up immediately.

"I like him, too," Timothy said. "Too bad Evinrude didn't show up."

"Oh, that's all right. He'll come eventually. He'll want to eat all the snacks!"

All three of them laughed, gay as little summer flowers as they made their way to Mrs. Brisby's classroom.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

October 1st, 1993

Over a week had passed since Pinky, Olivia, Timothy, and Cynthia had traveled to their own little Gilligan's Island. Fall was in full swing, with red, orange, and yellow decorating the campus, pumpkin muffins and apple cider stalls set up in various spots around the school, and warm sweaters and boots taking the place of short-sleeved shirts and sandals. The usual hall chatter and gossip traveled throughout the university, with topics ranging from the latest Beverly Hills: 90210 episode... to Nirvana's album release from last month, or, if you were one of the computer nerds, raving over some new game called Myst.

Talk of Halloween was already in the air, with the occasional crow figure or carved Jack-o'-lantern popping up here or there in a classroom. Pinky was considering throwing a party in light of the occasion. Many of the teachers excitedly agreed. Some did not. Basil thought it was a foolish affair, and Mr. Ages could very well have done without. Globetrotter heartily concurred. Strangely, the principal, a normally very hard-lined individual, was all for it. Those who knew him well, however, would have said that costuming and a flair for the dramatic was undoubtedly his thing, and that he wouldn't pass up an opportunity to show off in a vampire wardrobe or kingly dress. While some were turned off by the possibility of his showing up, others were all the more intrigued, and conversation over the matter increased tenfold.

The only thing more interesting than Halloween parties or album covers were Pinky's classes. Olivia had managed to gather up a few more friends over the course of a week. The news had spread fast. Timothy had told Despereaux, who had told Ralph, who had then told Nibbles. Olivia spread the word to Abigail, whom had then blabbed to Teresa and Martin, Timothy and Cynthia's elder sister and brother. One by one, they all showed up, day-by-day. Even Evinrude popped in once or twice, although not because he wanted to. He just wanted to "check on the kids; make sure they were okay" according to him. Olivia rolled her eyes at this, not at all blind to his grabbing a hearty helping of snacks at the end of each session.

Gilligan's Island turned out to be a popular travel spot in Pinky's class. It was the most requested and undoubtedly the most talked about. The theme song alone ended up making the rounds throughout the school. It started with Olivia whistling or humming it down the halls, caught on when several teachers and students copied her, and now whenever she skipped about the university pupils and instructors would often whistle the tune back to her. Even Basil caught himself humming along now and again, although he'd quickly cease and desist, shaking his head, when he realized what he was doing.

The first actual university student to sign up for Trozology was Teresa. She'd been pulled into it by Timothy, and her brother Martin soon followed suit. She'd been hesitant at first; after all, signing up for a new class this late into the semester was unusual, and not even allowed most of the time, but her siblings' interest in it was intriguing. What was meant to be a one-time dip in the pool ended up becoming a daily swimming excursion. Trozology, whatever it was, came with no homework, no punishment for answering a question wrong, no heavy books to lift, and, best of all, no stress. It was the first class she'd ever attended where she felt like she could be herself, and was a welcome reprieve amidst the chaos that was piles upon piles of essays, tests, and expectations she felt were upon her to succeed. This, she thought, would be beneficial to others who were also struggling. She had to tell someone...

"Someone" ended up being a couple of friends in the school. Although they didn't sign up, the idea of being transported to other tangible worlds simply via imagination alone was intriguing, even if they didn't entirely believe her. It was certainly more interesting than most anything else in the school, and Teresa's response to the class was so infectious that they couldn't help but pass by Pinky's classroom door window every now and again to take a peek. All they ever saw, however, was the teacher and maybe half a dozen kids "rowing" in a box on the floor, or standing on top of the desk pretending to climb a mountain, or sometimes just sitting in chairs watching tv. It certainly didn't look very exciting.

"No no! You have to actually participate!" Teresa insisted. "You have to commit!"

Still, no one else signed up, but Teresa continued to attend, perfectly at home with Pinky and the kids. It was fortunate that the principal never came out of his office past 5:00 PM. It was common knowledge that he detested children. Mrs. Judson only allowed them all entrance due to the area and the hour - Pinky's room was located in a section of hallway that the principal rarely frequented, and since his classes always started at 2:00 PM and went no later than 4:00 PM, it got a pass.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

7:01 PM

Down the hall and around a corner, an hour after having dismissed his last class for the day, Globetrotter exited the room, shut the heavy, mahogany door and locked it. His was one of only four doors in the entire university that was equipped with such a mechanism; at least, regarding personnel rooms. The other three were the principal's office, the janitor's closet, and the nurse's office. He'd paid for the installation himself. It wasn't that anything had ever been stolen from his classroom. Indeed, if one pillaged it they'd surely find nothing worth stealing. Globetrotter was simply paranoid, and everyone knew it.

He was late. On some nights, he took to grading students' homework on the property instead of at home, partially to get it over with sooner, but mainly because he wanted to spend extra time in the lab. No one questioned his staying back late. No one would dare to. What he estimated would take half an hour took half an hour more than that. Martha's grammar simply needed policing, and he wouldn't stand for Trevor's snide remark about the Germ-Line Theory being conclusive. If he needed to linger for an entire hour for the sake of science then so be it.

Snap went the door, and Click went the lock as Globetrotter bowed from his office (the better to pick up his heavy suitcase) and made for the elevator.

Back around the corner and down the hall, Pinky closed shut his door, which he did not lock, and made for room three-nineteen. He knocked. There was no answer.

"Hmmmm," Pinky mused.

"Mr. Globetrotter...?" he called, knocking again. "I have something for youuuu!"

Still nothing. Perhaps he'd gone home?

Ding.

Pinky's ears perked. Of course. He must have taken the elevator.

Off he skipped to the elevator hall. No one there. But he could hear the whirring of the machine, and as he looked up at the lit numbers above, he saw that the little arrow was slowly moving down... down... down to the basement level. Goody! That wasn't very far down. He could take the stairwell.

And that's just what he did. Down... down... down to the basement. He hummed as he went, and his humming turned into whistling. He liked the echo it made in the stairwell. It was a bouncy little tune, rather monotonous in nature, but also rather catchy. He wasn't quite sure where it came from, or why it came, but he liked it all the same.

He peeked around the door corner as he made to exit the stairwell, and was about to wave at and call out to Globetrotter, when he paused, keeping uncharacteristically quiet as he watched Brain step off the elevator, shuffle up to the wall, and place his hand on the wall. A little spot on it glowed green, acknowledging his paw print, and the wall... opened up.

Pinky almost gasped out loud, but slapped a paw over his mouth just in time. Once Globetrotter had disappeared behind the wall, Pinky tip-toed up to it and stared at it for a long while, which, for him, was about ten seconds.

"Brain?" he pondered, curious.

What was it he was doing back there?

Pinky looked at the wall. There was no green panel that he could see, but there was a square-ish gray one. He tapped on it tentatively. Nothing happened.

"Hmmm."

He looked at it more closely. There was a little groove in the side. He picked at it.

The little door swung open.

Sure enough, there was the panel. It glowed a bright green color as soon as it was exposed. Pinky cocked his head, looked at his left paw, and touched it to the pad. As soon as he did so, it glowed red and beeped angrily at him twice. No good.

He tried again, and again. Nothing. He even tried putting his foot on it, then his tail, then his tongue, but no matter what he did, it wouldn't gain him access. Seemed like it was Pinky-proof; friendly only to Globetrotter. He sighed and pressed his ear against the wall. If he strained his auditory senses, he could just make out the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard.

"Naaaaaaarf," he remarked to himself in a whisper. "Egad. What are you doing in there, Brain?"

He listened again. Now he could hear bottles clinking around; papers being shuffled. Now nothing at all. And now, swiftly, suddenly, the sound of footsteps slapping across the floor eagerly, drawing ever closer... and closer, right towards the wall...

---------------------

Author's Notes:

- The potion colors represent aspects of Brain's personality. Cinnamon: Potent, with a bite. Emerald: Outlook on self as royalty/important. Green is also associated with greed and ambition. Lilac: Can symbolize confidence and love. He has a soft heart deep down. Azure: Associated with the sky. I'd like to think of it as he has high and lofty ambitions/goals, but, like the sky (or the ocean), which leads up into space, he's also a vast pool of intrigue and mystery. There's a lot about him that is hidden and undiscovered.

- I thought about making Brain left-handed, but went with ambidextrous instead.

- Brain dealing with bowel issues is a joke, although it will still have pertinence in the story. I just find the idea of a high-ranking professor who considers himself very dignified dealing with explosive diarrhea incredibly funny. XD

#fan fiction #pinky and the brain

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