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2001hz · 2 years

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Issey Miyake: Spring/Summer 'Tubed Veil' Dress (1998)

- The manufacturing process of 'Tubed Veil' was an innovation based on a method of (partial shrinking technique)

#2001hz #01hz #archive #2001hz archive #1998 #ss98 #technique #method #design #issey miyake #issey miyake archive #tubed veil #dress

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zegalba · 1 year

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ISSEY MIYAKE: White Tubed Veil Dress Spring/Summer 1998

#issey miyake #white #tubes veil #dress #japan #fashion #ss98 #1998

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andy-wears-prada · 7 months

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Was just thinking of like a "two-piece" dress with the top being a small tube top made of pom poms and the bottom something that reaches at least the ankles with strings of pom poms going down with little key chains connecting them to the dress. the only idea i have for shoes right now is something baby pink with a low heel and white trim + a white bow. Maybe a veil of some sort too but idk.

#the vision is that this would be pink #fashion #pom pom #pom poms #shoes #dress #dresses #shoe #tube top #skirt #long skirt #veil #pink #ideas #fashion ideas #outfit #outfit inspo #outfit ideas

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tip-top-cloud-surfer · 9 months

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Bumping Beach Bikini - Rooster

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw / Wife!Reader

Word Count: 0.8k

This work, all my works, and my entire blog are 18+ Only

Warnings: Pregnancy; References to Sex/Suggestive Jokes; Flirting; Use of Second Person POV “You,” No Physical Description of Reader (Minus Pregnancy), No Y/N

Summary: Rooster admires the view of his pregnant wife on the beach.

Master List

Bradley had a mental list of the best outfits that he had ever seen you in. There wasn’t a set ranking, just general levels of appreciation.

There was a step above your normal beauty and allure, which mostly included random casual outfits that for whatever reason just got him going. Like the yellow sundress that you wore when it was exceptionally hot out that was super easy to slide his hands under. Or those jean shorts that he loved to slip his hand into the back pocket and give your ass an appreciative squeeze. Or anything of his that you chose to wear.

And the step above those were your slightly dressier outfits that got him even more excited. The backless black dress that you wore out in Vegas when the two of you went out with the Dagger Squad. Or the blue floor length dress that you wore to Maverick and Penny’s wedding that looked like it was literally sculpted for you and your figure. Though he did rip the zipper on that one.

Then there were the more special outfits. Your wedding dress mostly, since he literally burst out into tears the second that he saw you step out in it. The photo of you that he kept in his cockpit was from your wedding day with your veil spread out around you, giving you a completely angelic appearance. And, well, Rooster was also very fond of the matching white lingerie set that you wore underneath it that night too. He did rip that one too though.

And at the very top of the pyramid of his favorite outfits was, of course, your birthday suit. Nothing would ever top that one.

But seeing you in a maternity bikini with one of his Hawaiian shirts wrapped around your shoulders and your baby bump sticking out from between the folds of his shirt—now that was a sight that he ingrained into his mind for the rest of his life. That one really challenged your birthday suit in his mind.

“What?” you laughed, shooting your husband a look as you applied more sunscreen. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re glowing,” Bradley praised, still taking in your beauty.

“With sweat,” you giggled, rubbing in another layer of sunscreen. “It’s only spring and I swear I’m melting already.” You set down the tube of sunscreen and shot your husband a playful look. “You just had to make sure that I was heavily pregnant during the hottest months of the year in Southern California, didn’t you, Bradshaw?”

“Maybe you should have done the math before you begged me to get you pregnant,” Bradley replied, a bit smugly.

“I don’t beg,” you scoffed, shooting him a look. “And besides you offered about fifty times before I let you. If anyone was begging, it was you, Bradley.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Rooster mused, smiling over at you.

There was one rule to surviving with a heavily pregnant wife—it was to let you win. On just about everything. Anything health or safety wise, he would argue back, but Rooster took a rain check on all of the little things. And frankly he got more satisfaction out of seeing you happy than being right.

“Do you have enough water?” Rooster asked, sitting up some more.

You reached over and lifted your giant water bottle into the air. Taking a long sip from it just to prove your point to your husband, you set your water bottle back down on the sand.

“I’m fine. Just need some time to relax,” you replied, leaning back in your seat. “Before it all really sets in.”

Reaching down to pick up your ankle, Rooster started to massage your foot, earning a sigh of relief from your lips. Practically melting into your chair, you turned to your husband with a small, thankful smile as you curled your toes a bit.

“I could get used to this.”

“I’m sure you could,” Rooster chuckled, rubbing the back of your calf.

“There’s only one thing that would make this better.”

“What?”

“Take your shirt off.”

“Mrs. Bradshaw,” Rooster jokingly admonished, causing you to smile wider. “Be careful suggesting that. I knocked up the last woman who asked me to take my shirt off in that tone.”

“I’ll take the risk,” you replied with a smile, rubbing your bump slowly.

“So long as you understand the risk,” Rooster returned with a wink.

“Jesus Christ, the rest of us are trying to eat here,” Phoenix cut in, sounding annoyed.

You and Rooster turned to the other Daggers, Maverick, and Penny, who was hiding an amused smile behind her hand. Maverick turned to Penny with a similar expression, shaking his head. But most of the other Daggers, those who were single anyways, shot both you and Rooster somewhat disgusted looks.

“Sorry,” you called sheepishly, waving to them.

“I’m not,” Rooster replied, reaching up to take his shirt off.

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moondirti · 21 days

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due to popular demand, a follow up to this featuring: 18+ content, gaz, ballerina!reader, internet stalking, men being gross, another a thinly veiled character study

Kyle is a good man.

Granted, his metric is not attuned to common standards for morality anymore, nor has it been that way since basic. He's sure that if he were to pick any sheltered samaritan off the street to read out his laundry list of transgressions, they'd balk at the fact that their taxes go to keeping him fed. They'd rather their image of the army stay unsullied and ideal. They'd rather keep him at arms length with a thank you for your service and not confront the blood caked beneath his fingernails.

But he can no longer be held to their degree. No longer exists within these spaces. No. Kyle – or Gaz, if one were to go off of what he's called most often nowadays – is a doorstop. A pestle. Something inconspicuous, obscure, that serves the sole function of making life easier for everyone but itself. And he assumes this role with a handful of others who have nothing else to live for, exiled to crowd the back of Foxhounds and kill at a moment's notice. Foul men. Friends.

If someone were to line up every operative on a special forces unit, or better yet collect the likes of the 141 and asses each for their moral standing, Gaz can rest knowing he'd come out on top. He's not yet as far gone as they are; can enjoy a night out or a pretty bird writhing underneath him without wanting to choke her out. Only devoted to his captain, or the others, to the extent that their professional relationship calls for (no matter how much it itches at him to watch Ghost take care of Soap, or to reject Price when he offers him a drink).

Sure, he laughs at their jokes. Might pitch in when they're swapping stories of their filthiest catch, Soap rattling on about the lass who'd stuffed her tongue up his arse, or encourage them to shoot on sight if they spot a potential threat, civilian or otherwise. Yet the difference is this: when he goes home, he can stuff that all away.

Knows not to let it infest the boundaries of the real world. Off deployment, his comrades play pretend at the noncombatant lifestyle, but the guise is ill-fitting. They're too big for their skin. They stretch and tear at the conventions holding them in place, like feral dogs made to heel. Kyle doesn't have to be tamed. He's still functional, familiar with the expectations held of him. Can submit to integrity more easily than most.

Kyle is a good man.

And that's what he tells himself as he returns home, train car completely void of anyone but himself. He's good for having given you up. He's good for not have followed you home. There'd been a brief lapse of judgement, but he's good for doing something about it before things passed the point of no return.

You've lived this far without his protection, he reasons. Yet it doesn't change the unreachable itch, closed away in a supposedly locked box. Gaz. Or, his captain's voice, cigar-smoked and advisory.

But why should you continue like that.

It's hard to fall asleep that night.

He's sick with worry wondering if you ever got home, bile broiling and distending up his throat at the thought of having abandoned you. It's pure concern that compels him to find your socials, really. Kyle is only searching for an update, or recent post, indicating that you're alive.

With nothing to go off of but a face, he searches for dance studios in both Acton Town, your area, and the Kensington, the area where you'd boarded the tube from. He makes a shortlist of the most reputable ones (your attire seemed to imply that you were a seasoned ballerina) and cross-checks them as hosts of upcoming recitals. Two renditions of Swan Lake and a production of Giselle turn up, each with their very own cast lists. Thus begins a tireless search of every name credited.

His heart almost leaps out of his nose when you eventually load into view, then plummets at how easy you'd been to find.

Your vulnerability only sets Kyle's conviction in stone. Bloody good thing he's got your best interests in mind.

Locked twitter, a LinkedIn, and a public Instagram page which sends his blood pressure skyrocketing after checking your follower count. Popular. And of course he can see why. Over a hundred posts chronicling bright smiles and flattering outfits. You mainly use the account to promote your practice, though; feed full of skimpy little outfits, leotards and exposed sternums and impossible poses.

Stop it. He's here for something specific.

Kyle sips in a deep breath, scrolls back to the top of your page, clicks on your most recent post. A casual video of your leg raised on a barre while your friend counts how high above your previous record you're able to stretch. Your skin is sweat-slicked. Your mouth is thrown open in a half-laugh, half-pant. He almost forgets why he clicked on it in the first place, before the timestamp catches his eye.

30 minutes ago.

So, you'd gotten home.

He can go to bed now.

Exit your account. Swipe up on Instagram to clear it from his running apps. If he's extra disciplined, he'd block you. Rob himself of the temptation to tug himself over the photo of you in the splits.

Kyle is a good man because he knows his limits.

(But Kyle now also knows the address of your studio. That, even if he blocks you, it'll take up space in his chest. A ticking-time bomb. A knowledge that'll haunt him whenever he's on the District, Circle, or Piccadilly lines, and the train announces Gloucester Road. A force, a stone in his throat, that'll grow so large it'll force him to stand up and disembark, to walk until he's standing right outside and wait on you to wrap up rehearsal.)

It occurs to him that the point of no return has long since passed.

inclusivity note: i felt the need to say that, while reader is a dancer, her profession is not meant to imply anything about her body type. flexibility and agility are not limited to thin builds, and while the ballet industry can be very toxic, i've seen my fair share of spaces where all figures are embraced and success is determined only by ability!

#ooo i love him a little delusional actually #kyle 'gaz' garrick x reader #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle 'gaz' garrick #gaz #kyle garrick #gaz garrick #cod #call of duty #x reader #x afab reader #tw stalking

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jaffababe · 9 months

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Women of Sinai -Al-‘Arish

The Sinai dress is a masterpiece of art. Some dresses are predominantly red and are only worn by married women, while the blue ones are worn by widows. Dresses with a mixture of blue and red are an indication that the wearer has ended her period of mourning and is now ready to marry again.

The number of colors and the geometric designs embroidered by the women of Sinai on their dresses makes the latter a marvelous background for their kind of jewelry. It is the same as the Palestinian dress known as the Bir Sab' dress, with reference to the Palestinian area adiacent to the borders of the Sinai Peninsula.

The burgu', or veil, is an important piece of adornment worn only by the married Bedouin women of Sinai. It can almost be considered a piece of jewelry, for it is covered with quantities of hilyat, or round pieces of silver or white metal, or even gold, and sometimes old metal coins. The burgu is also sometimes adorned with a number of chains attached to both sides of the veil, ending in silver units covered with primitive designs stamped onto them, or ending with units of tube coral.

There are only two types of veil in Sinai, the short one worn by the women of the Akharsa tribe and with it a silver necklace or pendant, and the long veil worn by the women of the Bayyada tribe. Unmarried girls leave their faces uncovered so that young men may see their beauty and seek to marry them.

The Sinai Peninsula is inhabited by a number of Bedouin tribes who migrated to Egypt from the Arab peninsula and Palestine in ancient times. They settled, mixed, and intermarried with the different communities of inhabitants surrounding the peninsula, starting with the people of the Egyptian governorate of Sharqiya to the inhabitants of Bir Sab' in Palestine. The borders were open then and an active trade exchange flourished. Moreover, the Palestinian towns and cities were a market for Egyptian products. As a result of the intermarriages, there is a great resemblance between the jewelry worn in Sinai and the jewelry worn in Palestine, so much so that some jewelry workshops in Cairo specialize in producing the pieces of jewelry sold in Palestinian markets.

- Sinai: Land of turquoise (The Traditional Jewelry of Egypt)

#bedouin culture #akharsa #bayyada #al arish #Egypt #Bedouin #dag #traditional tattooing #I’ll tag this as palestine as well just because of the references the chapter makes #palestine #Sinai #Sinai peninsula

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morallyinept · 14 days

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Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 14

Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.

Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter word count: 7k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: In the aftermath of the tsunami, Frankie and Jude are haunted by dreams, and struggle to determine what is real and what isn't. Very, very brief mentions of suicidal thoughts, and mentions of drug taking.

Song sung in the chapter is:

Enjoy! 🖤

Chapter 13

As Frankie slowly regains consciousness, he finds himself enveloped in a disorienting haze - a fog of confusion that clouds his mind and dulls his senses.

The sterile scent of antiseptic assaults his nostrils, and the rhythmic beeping fills the air; a cacophony of sound that seems to echo in his ears, its rhythm erratic and unsettling.

His head throbs with a relentless ache, every pulse sending a sharp stab of pain shooting through his skull. His mouth feels dry and parched, as if he hasn't had a sip of water in days, and a bitter taste lingers on his tongue - a reminder of the poison he’s willingly ingested.

Every movement is an effort, every breath a struggle against the weight of exhaustion that presses down upon him. His body feels heavy and sluggish, as if it’s weighed down by invisible chains, tethering him to the hospital bed with a cruel inevitability.

And then there’s the sensation of the IV line - a thin, plastic tube that snakes its way into his arm, delivering a steady stream of vital fluids and medication into his bloodstream. The sensation is strange and disconcerting, a constant reminder of his own frailty, his own mortality.

He can feel the cool touch of the saline solution as it courses through his veins, a lifeline tethering him to the world of the living, anchoring him to the present moment.

With a groan, Frankie attempts to sit up, only to be met with a wave of dizziness that sends him reeling back onto the hospital bed. Blinking against the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, he struggles to piece together the events that have led him to this place - a place of sterile white walls and solemn faces and plastic name tags who speak in foreign medical terms; a place that feels worlds away from the place he once called home.

And then, like a bolt of lightning striking through the fog of his memories, it all comes flooding back - the overpowering rush of euphoria, the reckless abandon of his actions, the acetous taste of regret that lingers on his swollen tongue.

He’d overdosed on the coke, lost in a haze of self-destructive impulses and desperate cravings, until the world had faded to black and he’d slipped into unconsciousness.

His eyes adjust to the dim light of the hospital room, and he surveys his surroundings with a growing sense of unease. The other bed beside him lays empty and untouched, the sheets neatly folded back as if waiting for someone who’ll never come.

The silence that fills the room is deafening, a hollow echo of the emptiness that gnaws at Frankie's insides.

Something doesn’t feel right. He shouldn’t be here.

For a moment, he lays there in stunned silence, grappling with the enormity of his solitude. His mind replaying the moments leading up to this candid awakening - moments filled with reckless abandon, self-destructive choices, and a blind refusal to acknowledge the consequences.

He’d driven them all away with his addiction, with his lies, with his inability to see beyond his own needs. And now, when he needed them the most, he found himself abandoned, left to face the consequences of his actions alone.

To wake up, alone.

Frankie feels the sting of tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, a silent testament to the pain that grips his soul tightly in gnarled claws. He’s pushed everyone away, burned bridges with those who had once stood by his side, and now he’s paying the price for his folly.

As the reality of his situation sinks in, Frankie feels a cold knot of fear tighten in the pit of his stomach - a sinking realisation of the depths to which he’s fallen, the consequences of his actions laid bare before him in stark relief.

He’s come so close to losing everything - his life, his sanity, his chances at redemption - and yet, somehow, he’s been given a second chance as he feels that familiar shake in his fingers tingling.

The heavy silence of the hospital room is suddenly pierced by the sound of the door swinging open. His heart skips a beat as he turns his gaze towards the entrance, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

And there, standing in the doorway, is Benny - the steadfast friend who has never quite given up on him, even when Frankie's given up on himself.

A small smile tugs at the corners of Frankie's lips as Benny strides into the room, a personality as big as his boots, holding steaming coffee cups in his hands.

"Hey, Fish," Benny greets him, his voice warm and familiar. "Figured you could use some of this to chase away the cobwebs."

Frankie nods gratefully as Benny places a cup on the bedside table, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. He watches as Benny winks with a knowing smile.

And then, as if on cue, the door opens once more, and Frankie's heart skips another beat as Will and Carla enter the room.

There’s a moment of hesitation, a brief flicker of uncertainty in their eyes, before they approach Frankie's bedside with tentative smiles.

"Hey, buddy," Will greets, his voice tinged with concern. "How you holding up?"

Frankie meets Will's frosty gaze with a mixture of gratitude and relief.

"I'm... I'm okay," Frankie replies, his voice hoarse with emotion.

As Carla steps into view, her gaze immediately falls upon Frankie, but she can't bring herself to meet his eyes. Instead, she keeps her focus fixed on the floor, her hands nervously fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, the tinkling of her bracelets like familiar music in his head.

Frankie can sense Carla's discomfort, the tension radiating off her in waves. He wants to reach out to her, to offer her some measure of comfort, but he hesitates, unsure of how to break through the barrier that seems to have sprung up between them.

It’s clear from the tightness in her expression that she’s anything but okay with him right now. She’s struggling - struggling to come to terms with everything that’s happened, struggling to face the reality of Frankie's addiction, struggling to find the words to express the turmoil raging inside her.

The anger. The love. The hatred. The helplessness.

Frankie watches as Carla takes a hesitant step closer to his bedside, her eyes still fixed on the floor. He can see the conflict etched in her features - the desire to reach out, to offer support, warring with the fear of saying the wrong thing, of making things worse somehow.

And yet, despite this comforting picture, something feels off. Something’s askew, not quite right. A weird sense of Déjà-vu almost. It’s like trying to grasp at smoke - elusive and ephemeral, slipping through his fingers just when he thinks he has it within his grasp.

The disquiet within him grows stronger, a nagging voice at the back of his mind urging him to question, to probe deeper into the recesses of his memory. Prickles on his skin making him shudder.

But try as he might, Frankie can't quite put his finger on what’s wrong - only that something is amiss with this scene.

“Frankie?” Benny asks. “You alright, man?”

Frankie swallows and looks up at his friend, and that’s when he sees it. See’s odd movement in the IV bag out the corner of his eye.

There are fishes in the bag, swimming around.

“W-what-” Frankie stammers.

His attention is pulled by the sudden screeching, and he turns his head to see a monkey sitting casually on Carla’s shoulder as she speaks with Will. A tiny monkey with big, yellow eyes staring back at him.

“What’s h-happening?” Frankie queries, feeling dizzy. Like he’s being tossed about on an unsteady bed that feels like it’s floating. “¿Qué está pasando?” (What’s happening?)

Water is trickling down the walls, steady tracks that grow in width and speed.

Frankie's voice echoes through the building furore, but his friends seem oblivious to the rising floodwaters around them. They continue to move about the room with casual nonchalance, as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening.

That their feet aren't sloshing around circling waves of water flooding in from under the door and through the windows now.

“Fuck!” Frankie hollers as he scrambles out of the bed.

As the water continues to rise, inch by inch, Frankie feels a sense of desperation clawing at his chest. He knows he has to get out, has to escape before it’s too late and he drowns.

But as he struggles to find solid ground amidst the swirling currents, a sense of futility washes over him - a sinking feeling that he’s trapped, that there’s no way out. He looks down at the deflated lifejacket now around his torso, his fingers frantically pulling on the useless cords.

“No, no, no…”

The walls seem to blur and warp around him, and a strange sensation sweeps through his body, like the ground shifting beneath his feet. Panic surges through Frankie's veins as he looks around frantically, searching for some semblance of solidity in the shifting, swirling chaos.

The water rises steadily higher with each passing moment, until it reaches his knees, then his waist.

“Benny!" Frankie calls out, his voice swallowed up by the roar of the water. “Will! Carla!”

But his friends are nowhere to be found, lost amidst the churning currents that threaten to engulf him.

As the water rises higher and higher, panic gives way to a sense of resignation - a grim acceptance of his fate. He knows he’s dreaming, knows that none of this is real, but that knowledge offers little comfort in the face of the impending deluge.

He’s not waking up.

And then, just as Frankie feels himself on the brink of being swallowed whole by the raging waters, a voice cuts through - a voice that is familiar and comforting, like a beacon of light in the darkness.

A voice that he knows only too well rushing into his ears around the water as he sinks beneath the surface.

“FRANKIE!”

A tsunami can last anything from a few minutes to several hours.

The energy of a tsunami runs through the entire depth of the ocean. It only becomes deadly when the ocean floor becomes shallow enough, and all that energy compresses into a smaller amount of water.

The deeper the water, the faster the tsunami, travelling up to speeds of five hundred miles per hour, and taking mere minutes to reach land.

Once it reaches the land, the raw energy of thousands of tons of water destroys everyone and everything in its path in mere seconds. It’s a myth that you can outrun a tsunami of that magnitude - you simply can’t. It will engulf you before you even comprehend the thought in your mind of running.

The survival rates of a tsunami can vary depending on several factors such as the magnitude of the tsunami, the distance from the coastline, the elevation of the land, and individual preparedness and response. Generally, survival rates are quite low in areas directly impacted by a large and powerful tsunami, particularly if people are caught off guard and unable to evacuate to higher ground in time. And even if you can, your chances are still dubious.

You just gotta hope that luck is on your side.

Jude’s tumbling through the water, swallowing more of it as the deadly moments wear on; the lifejacket seemingly useless as she keeps being pulled under as she’s swept along with the ferocious current.

She surfaces momentarily to yell out for Frankie, before she’s dragged under again.

“Frankie!” She screams, more water pouring down her throat making her choke and gag.

She kicks her legs, her lungs on fire as she surfaces again, blinded by the inflation of the life jacket as she tumbles like she’s in a spin cycle in a washing machine.

She glances at her wrist as she surfaces again; part of the ripped shirt is still wrapped around it, but Frankie isn’t on the end of it anymore.

“FRANKIE! FRANKIE!!” She screams out in the water, the waves continuing to crush her head on a relentless repeat.

She splashes around frantically searching for any sign of him in the choppy current as it pulls her along.

“FRANKIE! WHERE ARE YOU?!” She cries out again, a choked sob overcoming her but refusing to admit defeat - he has to be here, he has to have survived this just like she’s doing.

They survive together, that’s the deal.

“FRANKIE!”

But then his lifejacket didn’t inflate. What if he’d been knocked out as his head had smashed into a rock under the water? What if he’s already dead?

“NO!” Jude cries out, swimming as hard as she can as the waves try to pull her under again.

“NO! NO! FRANKIE!” She screams again until her throat is raw. “FRANKIE! FRANKIE!”

With each passing moment, the waves seem to grow taller, more relentless in their assault, threatening to engulf her completely. She fights against the current with all her strength, but it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave with her bare hands.

As she struggles to stay afloat, her mind races with a thousand fears and uncertainties. What if he can't hear her over the deafening roar of the waves? What if he’s hurt, trapped somewhere beneath the surface? What if...

She can hear choking and yelling, and turns in the water to see Frankie swimming towards her.

He disappears under a wave as it rolls on top of him and she takes a deep breath as the wave crushes her head only seconds after. She resurfaces just as Frankie reaches her and she clings onto him as he splutters and chokes.

“Thank God! Fuck!” Jude exclaims, thrashing amidst the frothy chaos, her body battered by the relentless force of the sea.

Without hesitation, Frankie reaches out, his strong arms encircling her trembling form as they ride the waves together. For a fleeting moment, time seems to stand still as they cling to each other amidst the fury of the ocean.

The water crashes around them, the salty spray stinging their eyes and coating them with a thin film of mist.

“Hold on to me!” He makes a weird gurgling noise as he tries to speak and coughs. “Holy fuckin’ shit!” Frankie cries out in disbelief as he paws at her and her hands grab a tight hold of his t-shirt.

He looks like a drowned rat, his hair and beard covering him and sticking to his skin with the saturation. There’s no sign of his trusty, familiar cap.

Frankie coughs again as water splashes over his face as they ride the waves of the tsunami, desperately clinging onto one another as they tumble and swirl with the ocean’s aftershocks.

Jude grips so hard onto him that her hands will ache for days afterwards, but she’s determined not to let him go this time.

It’s hard to tell how exactly long they’re in the water for.

The sun has moved across the other side of the sky as they bob there on the waves as the remnants of the tsunami begins to fade out on the ocean.

Thankfully, the tsunami wasn’t all powerful or engulfing enough that it’d taken their lives, but it was still incredibly damaging.

Exhausted, Frankie rests his head against the front of Jude’s inflated lifejacket with his eyes closed. But he’s still holding tightly around her waist as they float in the water, aching all over from their battered bodies.

“Look, over there!” She says to him, rousing him, and he lifts his head when they spot the island in the distance.

“Can you swim that far?” Frankie asks her.

“Yeah. We did it before, we can do it again, right?”

He nods. “Take it slow. Don’t burn out.”

They swim together against the current slowly; their limbs searing and getting pushed back with the waves every now and again as they continue to surge.

It seems like they aren’t making much in the way of progress, stopping occasionally to catch their breath and check the other is okay to carry on, but the island seems to grow closer, until eventually they can stand on the ocean floor again and stagger up the shore to the sandbank.

They both collapse on the sand; Frankie falling onto his back gasping for air like he’s having an asthma attack. Jude falls onto her knees, battling to get the life jacket off and dry heaving as she coughs up copious amounts of sea water until she eventually pukes it all out.

“Are... you... okay?” Frankie gasps in between each word as he hears her upchuck relentlessly.

She looks up at the beach, front wiping her mouth when she’s done spitting out, and is dismayed at what she sees.

“Oh God...” Jude’s voice breaks.

In the aftermath of the tsunami, the once eerily quiet island lay battered and broken, a landscape transformed by the merciless force of nature.

Trees lay uprooted and strewn about like discarded matchsticks, their branches stripped bare and twisted into grotesque shapes by the ferocious waves. Debris littered the sandy shore, a grim testament to the havoc that had been wrought upon the island in a matter of moments.

A scene of utter devastation that seems to stretch out as far as the eye can see. The once pristine, rocky beach is now marred by the impacting detritus.

It’s gone - all of it. The shack, the fire pit, the solar stills, just... gone. Nothing but a sparsely flooded and barren landscape greeting them, and not much else.

Jude staggers up the soggy sandbank wandering aimlessly in shock and disbelief. Face blank and eyes wide in disbelief. Body trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline as it confuses her nerves.

Frankie calls after her, rolling over onto his front and taking in the overpowering sight of destruction presented before him.

“Fuck.”

He drags himself to his unsteady feet and follows behind her in a stunned silence as he casts his weary eyes about the place. Their movements are slow and unsteady, as if they're moving through a fog, each step weighed down by the crushing weight of the destruction around them.

Every sound - the crash of waves, the creak of splintered wood - amplified, assaulting their senses with a relentless barrage of stimuli.

Jude stops when she spots something near the cave mouth as they begin to pass it.

“Oh no,” she whimpers, and drops to her knees when she reaches it. “No, please no-”

She picks it up and cradles it to her chest, her hands trembling as she strokes his cold, sodden fur. Frankie approaches, and she looks up at him with silent tears streaming down her face.

“Egon...” Jude blubs through choked wails, as she holds the little, lifeless monkey inside of her arms; his once wide, yellow eyes closed forever in a drowned sleep.

Frankie drops to his knees beside her and despite his will, he can’t help but shed some tears for the little critter who, as Jude had said before, he actually loved more than he let on.

People of faith will often be heard saying ‘God is testing me,’ when things ultimately get tough in their lives.

Like a bearded man, wearing Birkenstocks, relaxing on a cloud and sipping from a G&T, is observing your plight and revelling in it, chuckling haughtily like watching an episode of a trashy talk show.

God is clearly a sadist after everything he’s put them through, and as she watches Frankie scooping the pile of sand back into the hole he’d dug with his shovel-like hands for Egon’s grave, Jude can’t help but feel a deep sense of harbouring resentment for her maker right now.

Frankie rubs his hands against the thigh of his damp shorts and looks up at her as she stares down at the sandy grave.

“Do you think we should say something?” He asked her, scratching at the back of his head and squinting.

“There isn’t anything left to say.” Jude mutters and strides off, sitting on the sandy shore and staring out at the ocean.

It’s calmed considerably; the oncoming dusk making the horizon glow pink in the distance.

Frankie plonks himself beside her after a few minutes of staring at the monkey’s resting place; returned to the earth in the cycle of life, a festering ouroboros of gut-wrenching despair swilling inside of him, alongside copious amounts of sea water.

Hugging his knees and holding onto his wrists as he looks out at the horizon too. He breathes out a deep weary sigh and sniffs in deep.

“I’m sorry,” Jude says to him after a few moments.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, hermosa,” Frankie turns to her.

“Yes I do. I’m sorry for berating you so much about having hope all those times. You were right not to. There is no hope for us. We’re going to die, just like Egon.” She speaks like a robot, devoid of any emotion whatsoever, and it rattles his bones to see her talk like this, to see that she’s just done.

“Stop it,” he warns, pulling her towards him, but she resists, pulling her arms back away, but he grips onto them, grappling with her.

“No-”

“Hey, stop it!” Frankie yells, and pulls her in close as she wanes and falls against him without any more fight left in her.

“We’re going to die!” Jude wails into him and sobs as he holds her tight, almost like he’s a boa and is constricting the life out of her.

She writhes and her shoulders heave as she cries for what feels like eternity. Her sobs louder and more haunting and all Frankie can do is hold her in his arms and never let her go.

But his arms feel weak, no longer the strong barriers they once were to protect her anymore.

He doesn’t say anything to her; offers her no reassuring lies of comfort because there’s no point. She’s finally accepted it now like he had; they were going to die.

And it kills him all over again.

There’s nothing to pick through or scavenge.

It’s almost as if they’re just going through the motions to stay busy and not to actually drown themselves willingly in the water to end all the pain and suffering they’ve endured.

How much suffering can two people withstand before it finally breaks them? When is that breaking point, the crux of no return? When do you take that step and what is it that will finally give you that unwavering courage to turn your back and fall off the ledge?

Beaten, crushed... starving; on the brink of death and looking into its inviting, comforting jaws as it reaches out to you and convinces you in a soothing lullaby that everything will be okay, and you start to believe it for a while. That life on the other side will be better than this - anything will be better than this. The allure calls to you like a Siren song and it gets harder not to become bewitched by it and resist.

They don’t speak much, in fact at all. Jude simply watches Frankie get up from the sand where they’ve slept all night from their exhaustion, and observe as he starts hunting for things - anything that he can find and strike gold on.

Knowing it’s pointless, she stands up anyway, robotically copying his every move, searching for any stray bottles or clothes and not really understanding why she’s doing it. Searching for anything at all that can prolong their survival, even just for the tiniest bit.

But of course it’s fruitless - the tsunami has washed it all away.

Frankie reaches the tree line, surveying the damage of the wooded area that's halved in size, and he can no longer see the fuselage anymore that was previously stuffed into the bank on this side of the bay. There’s a singular piece of wood from the shack, split and broken as it floats in a muddy pool by some snapped tree trunks.

He glances up at the ridge and there’s no trace of the branch igloo and he sighs, deflated and beginning to hear that deathly Siren song tinkling inside his ears.

Jude wanders around aimlessly; frying under the heat and constantly pulling up her jeans that are falling down when she takes a few steps forward. Her legs have that dark shadow of hair growth and she hates the fact that she hasn’t been able to shave them for some time now.

She hates the fact that her stomach seems on a constant, never ending rumble. She hates that she can’t just lie down face first in the water and just go. She hates that she can’t do it because of him.

She hates that Frankie won’t simply let her die.

As she wanders along the shoreline, her eyes scanning the debris scattered by the waves, she spots a familiar sight - a baseball cap, swirling amidst the calming foam and froth of the ocean.

With a quickening of her heart, she wades into the shallows, the cool water lapping at her ankles as she reaches out to retrieve the cap, trembling with disbelief, she can't help but feel a surge of astonishment.

As her fingers close around the familiar fabric, fingers gliding over the sewn-on patch of the Standard Heating Oil logo, she chuckles out in disbelief. This simple piece of fabric, battered and worn by the elements, had made it back to him somehow. And she’s glad to see it - Frankie isn’t quite Frankie without his cap.

They meet back on the beach a little while later and slump themselves in the sand defeated with heavy thuds, hungry and tired and irritable beyond all reason. That kind of heaviness that swamps your head and crushes it until your brain splurges out of your ears.

Jude hands him the cap and he’s just as astonished, if not relieved to see it, as she is. But she doesn’t say anything to Frankie as she watches him put it back on his head under a scraggly mess of overgrown curls. And Frankie doesn’t say anything to Jude after offering her a limp smile.

She lays back and rolls over on the sand, facing away from him; willing the sand and rocks to turn into quicksand and just swallow her into the suffocating dark.

They stand on the ridge, the sun on high and the breeze blowing through her braid.

He’s always so fascinated with those stray wisps of hair that will escape it, no matter how tightly he ties it for her. They’ll flock to her face and cling to her cheek, pelting her with never-ending kisses affectionately.

Frankie’s sitting amongst the half constructed branch igloo; sticks scattered all around him that he’s whittling with the switchblade, and Jude’s looking over the ledge of the ridge and humming a faint tune that’s barely audible, wandering back and forth as she stretches her legs.

His hands are tight and raw, blister with the effort exhumed, but he continues on with the job nonetheless, numbing out to the aches and splinters. As Frankie stretches, cracking his back, he hears her hum out again.

“Sing it for me.” Frankie prompts her, and Jude turns to catch his smirk with glowy cheeks. “Go on, hermosa.”

Jude takes a breath with a grin and sings.

“In the end. As my soul's laid to rest, what is left of my body? Or am I just a shell?”

She starts moving her head, swaying it side to side as her shoulders begin to follow. She can hear the music inside her head as though they have her playlist right here blasting out on the rocks beside them; the beat of the drums counting her in and the strum of the guitars plucking through the riffs and melodies.

Frankie stops whittling, resting the stick in his lap squinting up at her with a smirk stretching his pink, dry lips.

“And I have fought. And with flesh and blood, I commanded an army. Through it all, I have given my heart for a moment of glory...”

He laughs as she rocks her hips with vigour and then punches her fist up in the air.

“In the end. As you fade into the night-”

“Woah-oh-oh-oh!” Frankie yells out singing along to the tune.

“Oh fuck, you know it?” Jude exclaims, smiling in happy delight at him.

Frankie nods. “Keep singing,” he encourages.

“Who will tell the story of your life? And who will remember your last goodbye?”

“Woah-oh-oh-ohhhh!” Frankie hollers again as he stands up, taking her hand and twirling her around whilst she laughs again, her eyes crinkling and throwing her head back.

“Cause it's the end and I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid to die.” Jude sings.

“CAUSE IT’S THE END, AND I’M NOT AFRAID - I’M NOT AFRAID TO DIE!”

They both fist punch the air over the ledge as they sing the final words out loud together, echoing all down the ridge across the island.

It’s a memory that splinters him. That was the happiest he’d seen her since they’d landed upon this dreadful island. Carefree and joyous, a wild jackal roaming unrestrained and free.

It was in that moment right there, as they’d both looked at one another with their fists in the air and turned them into the finger; giving the middle finger to the island that had bullied them for so long, through breathy smiles and wondrous awe, that Frankie realised he loved her. He fucking loved her.

I fuckin’ love you!

He’d suspected it for a while leading up to it, those sickly butterflies whenever she was near becoming more apparent. The thrumming of his heartbeat when she touched and kissed him; those early premonitions when you just know and feel giddiness from the high of meeting someone who’s so in tune to your frequency.

But that was the moment right there when it registered deep inside of the layers of his heart and winded him. Terrified, elated; utterly sound in the knowledge of the sincere truth as it flowed through his blood and over his bones.

Convinced he wouldn’t possibly feel this way again about someone, fearful that it could turn into that awful situation again where he could be selfish and push her away. But Frankie was so desperate to learn from his past mistakes, to not repeat them and be better - be better for her.

That’s love, right? Wanting to be the best you can be for someone?

Frankie-

I fuckin’ love you!

No. No-no-no!

BRAAACE!

I fuckin’ love you!

Frankie glances over at Jude lying in the sand away from him, her back to him and slipping further and further out of his reach.

‘Cause it’s the end and I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid to die!

Frankie turns towards the sea, and after he’s had enough of that horrific view staring back at him, he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes to stop the tears from slipping out of them again.

The droning noise wakes her, along with the muffled sounds of shouting. Like her head is under the water and hearing it pummel her eardrums as someone is yelling above the surface.

She sits up in the sand squinting and can see Frankie at the shoreline, waving frantically. Her eyes soon look past him to the small speedboat hurtling towards the shore.

Jude flies up on her legs, any sense of sleep rolling right off of her as she watches Frankie’s animated face astonished, and looking back at her, as his hands continue to signal to the boat.

The little boat with the inexorable humming noise like a swarm of hornets approaches the shore closer. Out in the distance she can see a larger boat, a little like a liner. Its grey shadow is stark on the blue horizon - a cancerous smear on a perfectly undisturbed cobalt backdrop.

It’s all lies... wake up, you’re dreaming.

Frankie begins to swim out towards the boat and Jude pads towards the shore in complete disbelief, her heartbeat kicking it up a gear as Frankie gets closer and closer to it.

The boat skids to a halt on the surface and she watches as the person inside heaves Frankie into the boat with his arm, and Frankie points back towards the shore with flailing fingers.

Wake up! It’s a dream!

Panic overcomes her, Jude can see Frankie waving to her, and she freezes, watching as the boat turns in the waves and holds her breath.

No, come back!

Circling, the boat speeds towards the shore again and the spray hits her in the face as she wanders out to it, her feet sloshing through the water, stunned and hyperventilating a little.

Oh God! Wake up! Please, wake up!

Frankie hops out of the boat alongside the person, who turns out to be two separate people, in blue and white lifejackets. Frankie reaches out to Jude, saying words that she can’t hear or understand, almost as if he’s jabbering away in excited, fast Spanish and she can’t decipher or recognise any of the sounds as they flow from his labrose lips.

She feels him pulling her into the boat and a foiled blanket is wrapped over her shoulders, a bottle of water placed into her numb hands.

“Wake up…” Jude mutters from trembling lips. "Wake up, wake up..."

More incomprehensible gibberish is exchanged between Frankie and the men, and she glances over her shoulder at the sight of the island suddenly shrinking away forever in the distance, reaching a gnarly hand out to her that can’t quite keep up.

Come back, Jude. Don't leave me.

It’s like an out of body experience; she’s floating and watching it happen. She pinches her arm and feels the pain ebb into her skin.

Wake up!

Frankie turns her chin towards him and presses his forehead against hers, breathing out as he pulls the blanket over her wet shoulders further.

“We made it, hermosa.”

She remembers hearing him say it to her, but the words don’t sink in; slowly being squeezed one at a time into her ear canal making the slow journey towards her brain that’s a messy pan of sloppy scrambled eggs.

“You guys, alright?” Comes a loud voice over the sound of the engine. “You get stranded after the tsunami, your boat capsize?”

Frankie and Jude look up simultaneously at the speaker holding onto the side of the boat whilst the other one steers it.

Frankie shakes his head. “No, we’ve been out here f-for over a year.” He speaks up through a deep hoarse voice that’s scarred from the sea water he’s swallowed in his desperate swim towards the speedboat.

“What do you mean out here?” The man asks.

“Our plane crashed, and we-”

“Fuck, you guys were on flight eight-sixteen?” The man questions taking off his sunglasses; the concern and astonishment palpable on his face. He has frosty blue eyes that instantly remind Frankie of Will’s.

“Y-you know about that?” Frankie asks with a widening mouth.

The man nods. “Sure, the whole damn world knows about it. They didn’t find any survivors. Looked everywhere.”

“You didn’t look hard enough!” Jude suddenly shouts at him over the sound of the engine, her voice tight from being throat punched back into reality.

This isn’t a dream. She doesn’t need to wake up. She can feel the vibrations of the boat on the waves as it bounces over them. She can see the island shrinking, feel the wind in her hair.

Frankie clutches onto her as the man dips his head in sympathy, unable to meet her stunned gaze.

“We were always here...” She trails off, looking back out at the island in wonderment.

Come back, Jude. Don't leave me. Come back.

“You guys are gonna be alright. You’re safe and we’ll get you home.” The man confirms putting his sunglasses back on. He reaches for the boat’s radio and speaks into the receiver, his voice swallowed up by the humming of the boat.

Jude clings onto Frankie and looks up at him, with eyes as watery as the ocean.

“Is this really happening?” She asks him, searching his eyes for the moment she’ll wake up from this terrible, reoccurring dream she’s doomed to live through on repeat forever.

We’re never going to get off this island. It can't be this easy.

Frankie nods with a bewildered smile through his bushy whiskers, the wind from the speed of the boat rippling through the curls behind his ears as he holds onto the cap, a giant palm flat on his head.

Jude clutches onto his wet t-shirt and rests her head against his chest hearing his heart beating as loud and as fast as hers is, even over the sound of the speedboat.

The larger ship in the distance is a US Navy vessel; called out in the wake of the tsunami to look for survivors, and to scout the ocean for capsized boats or people who had gotten into deep water.

Once on the ship’s main dock, a plethora of uniformed personnel busy themselves as Frankie and Jude are ushered towards the main control room.

She clocks a helicopter on the landing pad and shudders, recalling the countless times her mind had convinced her in her sleep that Frankie was leaving her on one, shrinking in the sky.

The captain of the ship greets them both with a caramel tan stark against a crisp white shirt, regarding them with some kind of disbelief when the rescue officers explain they originate from the doomed flight that had disappeared well over a year ago.

“Are you American?” The captain asks them both and Frankie nods.

“We’ll call the consulate. Get you some representation to help you back home.”

“Where are we, captain?” Frankie asks, and he looks back at him with a bemused expression.

“The SS Pendrinhas; US Navy.”

“No, I mean, where are we in the ocean? The island?” Frankie clarifies.

“You’re approximately one thousand and forty-three miles off the coast of The Prince Edward Islands. We’re in the Indian Ocean, sir.” The captain explains.

“We are?” Frankie asks him, turning white as a ghost.

“Yes,” the captain nods. “The island you were on is one of many scattered islands that are vastly unpopulated, surrounding the main Prince Edward Islands. You couldn’t see other peninsula points?”

Frankie shakes his head. “There was a-a ridge, but we couldn’t see any other land from that.”

“Damn. So near, yet so far,” the captain concludes with a frown, but it doesn’t offer any comfort at all. “We’ll take you down to the med bay, get you some dry clothes. It’ll be a couple hours before we reach the mainland. You look like you could do with a coffee.” The captain claps Frankie on the side of the shoulder and he winces. “Maybe something a bit stronger, huh?”

They’re both escorted down into the ship’s hull towards the med bay, passing officers stop to glance at their dishevelled appearance occasionally like they’re a rare exhibit in a museum.

Once inside the bay, another officer gathers some papers on a clipboard and proceeds to run through a list of questions, firing them off like ammo.

“Can you... Can you leave us for a few minutes?” Frankie says to the officer, noting the painfully vacant expression on Jude’s face. A thousand yard stare he recognises only too well.

The officer nods, looking somewhat relieved. “Sure. Take as long as you need.”

“What day is it?” Jude asks the officer, who stops and looks at her with a strained smile.

“It’s the nineteenth of July, ma’am.”

“And the time?” Frankie follows up.

The officer pulls back his sleeve and checks his watch. “Twenty-seven past six in the evening, sir.”

Once the grunt leaves, Frankie approaches Jude and puts his hands on her shoulders.

“Look at me,” Frankie persuades “I’m right here, find my eyes…” and her eyes slowly find him. “We made it, we’re off the island. We’re alive, hermosa.”

It takes a few moments, a couple of beats for the words to really sink in. We made it, we’re alive.

We’re alive.

Jude slumps forward into his arms, like she’s lost all her air and she sobs in abject relief. She feels him emit a small chuckle as he breathes out at his own realisation; his hands massaging her back up and down in deep circles soothing her, but they’re shaking.

“We really got off the island?” She asks him, absolutely astonished and wiping at her eyes that are so dry and sore.

Frankie pulls back looking down at her with a relieved smile; he smooths away the tear tracks from her face with his thumbs and kisses her gently on the forehead.

“We did. I love you,” he whispers to her.

Jude looks into his intense brown eyes, and remembers him shouting at her that he loved her right before the tsunami swallowed them up. She realises she hasn’t said it back.

But the look in his eyes right now assure her that saying the words out loud doesn't matter - he knows that she loves him back unconditionally.

When you spend that amount of time with someone - in that kind of situation - fighting for your life on a continuous basis, not only do you learn about your own resilience, but that of the person with you. You begin to depend on one another, work as a team; look out for each other’s well being, because understandably, if you can prolong their survival, you undoubtedly prolong your own.

But not only that, you become company for that other person, a means of distraction and escape from your plight, even if it’s just temporary. Lost in the sounds of her melodic laugh, or the way in which his muddy eyes regard you as you speak.

You begin to care for that person, worry for them and soon enough, you become attached in so many ways. An intense bond that no-one else can ever understand, and it can never be severed, even if you were to part ways - forever bonded in your strife and survival.

And eventually, you grow to love them; to depend on them to the point that you can’t function through a single moment without them, and it kills you to be apart from them for even the briefest of moments. You fall in love with them.

Jude pushes her forehead against his, breathing out, and Frankie feels her breath warm his face and insides in equal measure.

“I love you so, so much, Frankie.” Jude hiccups, holding onto him tightly. “Te quiero, te quiero.”

To be continued...

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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 7 months

Text

Price You Gotta Pay

Steven Grant X F!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • Kinktober 2023 Masterlist • Day 1: Love Bites

Summary: Steven has his own plans for the evening.

Warnings: edging, p in v sex, oral sex (f receiving), kinda a little dom!Steven?, typos, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 1293

Originally, there had been a plan to the evening. Tasks that need to be completed. Chores you were going to get done.

But that had pretty much been thrown out of the window.

When you’d come back in from work you’d given Steven a quick kiss before you showered, itching to get the dirt of the tube and train from your skin, and changed.

You’d been in the middle of talking to him, explaining about some paperwork you should crack on with while you also asked him about what he fancied for dinner. And sent a last-minute email on your work phone.

Steven had crept up behind you, pressing close and kissing your neck. Whispering thinly veiled promises while he took your mobile out of your hands and coaxed you to bed.

In all honesty, you hadn’t taken that much convincing.

He muttered how much he had missed you during the day between pressing soft kisses to your skin and enticing you out of your comfy clothes.

“What’s got you so worked up?” You had whispered as he gently pulled off your top, pretending you weren’t as eager as he was.

“What do you mean?” He had asked innocently, but there was a devilish look in his eyes that told you differently.

“Did you see another photo of a particularly voluptuous statue?” You tease playfully, calling back to an incident that happened a few weeks prior.

Steven shoots you a dark warning look before continuing to kiss your skin. “No.” He mumbles but a slight flush dusts his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“Are you sure?” You tease again.

Steven glares but smiles. “You’ll pay for that love.”

And pay you did.

You weren’t quite sure how many times you’d nearly cum. But you knew you’d definitely lost track around the fourth time.

“Steven,” you sob as you wiggle under him. “Please!”

He glances up at you from his spot between your thighs, still softly sucking your clit as you writhed. “Hmm?” He answers, purposefully sending still vibrations along you.

You mewl, tears on your cheeks as you try to grind up against his mouth. His forearm presses firmly against your stomach, pushing you back down into the mattress.

“Steven,” your breath catches as he swipes a board, flat lick slowly through your sopping folds. Your empty pussy clenches around nothing as he groans, his eyes rolling back in his head ever so slightly.

From this angle you can just see how his own hips move, steadily moving in languid circles as he rubs his aching cock against the bed.

The fact that as much as he was edging you, he was edging himself does little to comfort you in this state.

Your wetness saturates his skin, running down his chin to pool at his collarbone. The sheets beneath you are soaked, drenched with the physical evidence of your desperate need.

He runs another long lick through your folds, paying special attention to your clit as he laps at you.

Pleasure coils tightly in your stomach. Just a little more, just a little more and you would cum. Could taste it.

You bite your lips together, clenching your jaw hard to try to hide the wanton sounds that crave to escape.

Just a little more and-

You cry out in frustration as Steven pulls back and away from you, his dark eyes watching you as you try to follow his mouth.

“Steven, no, how did you-” you sob.

He chuckles and kisses your inner thigh, gently sucking another love bite into your soft skin before nuzzling you.

He lightly touches each bite mark, bruises looking so pretty in the neat little rows in which he had made them. Six in total. Six times you had been so, so close.

“Did you know love,” he swallows, almost managing to hide out wrecked it sounds. “That the number seven in ancient Egypt was considered a lucky number?”

“Steven,” no matter how much you love him and usually are enamoured with his fountain of knowledge, now just isn’t the time. “I-”

“Shh, love,” he teases, tracing your folds with the very tip of his finger and you moan.

He nips lightly at the most recent love bite he made before he continues. “As I was saying, seven is quite an important number. Seven scorpions guarded Isis, seven little stings. He gently pokes each love bite on your thighs, counting softly to six until he lightly circles your clit. “Seven. It represents perfection, completeness.” He laughs to himself. “It even sounds a bit like Steven, doesn’t it? Only one letter out.”

You bite your lip as you look at him desperately.

He leans up ever so slightly on his elbows and cocks his head to the side. “Do you want to cum, love?”

With a whine you nod, anguish leaking out of your every pour. It hurt. That deep, low need. Sparked along your nerves with every heartbeat.

“All you had to do is ask.” He grins and slides up your body, pressing his warm skin against yours. He places kisses along your ribs, scraping his teeth over your nipples and neck before he gets to your mouth and settles his hips between your legs. His cock aches as it presses against your core, the tip smearing precum along your lower stomach.

He groans softly, his eyebrows pinched together in bliss for a moment as his carefully mandated facade cracks just a little.

Steven tries to kiss you softly, but you’re too hungry for him. He moans happily as you slide your tongue into his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips. You urge him closer, not wanting even a fraction of space between your bodies.

Without breaking the kiss, Steven reaches down and guides himself to your aching pussy. For a moment he goes to rub his head through your folds to spread your slick and ease inside, but you buck up against him as he notches his fat tip at your entrance. And he just sliiiides in.

You cry out into his mouth, you’re so worked up and wet that he sinks deeper. Your walls gripping him tightly and pulling him into you.

Steven groans against you, his resolve breaking completely. “Hmm, love, fuck,” he can’t help himself and thrusts harshly completely sheathing himself inside. His right-hand grabs hold of your thigh, his fingers pressing against the love bites as he pushes your legs apart wider, gazing down as he spits you open.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he punctuates each word with a powerful buck, hitting dizzily deep and making your head spin. “Love,” he whines, his voice low, his eyes closed in concentration as sweat beads in his hair. “I’m- I’m not gonna last, I-”

You arch up against him, meeting every thrust of his hips with your own. His pubic bone brushed against your clit with every grind, the stretch of him electrified every cell and pushed you to the very edge.

“Gonna cum!” You manage to stammer out, your voice rising to what would have been an embarrassing pitch if you cared as pleasure takes over every thought. Stars explode behind your eyes, run down your veins and all you can do is bask in it and let it overwhelm you.

Steven moans, following you close behind as his hips stutter when you clench down on him and milk his cock for everything he’s worth. He cums deep, fucking his spend further inside before he collapses on top of you.

Softly he nuzzles into your neck, moving to make sure you’re not taking his full body weight. But you moan out a grumble and pull him back, wanting to feel him on top of you.

With a smile he kisses your cheek.

____________________________________

Thank you for reading! I'm not doing my normal tag list for kinktober as to not overwhelm anyone, please let me know if you'd like to be added/taken off.

@flightlessangelwings @steven-grants-world @lonelyisamyw-0love @eyelessfaces @angel-of-the-moons

If you'd like to be taken off the tag list please let me know here

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twogyuu · 7 months

Note

can i get a number 17 with wonwoo and a side of angst please

pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader

17: "Enemies. Strictly enemies."

genre: fluff, angst(?), childhood rivals to lovers

warnings: profanity

wc: ~1k

a/n: this was inspired by a couple of IG reels i saw of brides running away for SVT and this IG reel about academic rivals.

. . . .

The predicament you are in is truly bizarre - one for the films and people told family stories about.

Yet, you can't help but feel a sense of relief to it all.

To hell with pleasing families, tight and lung constricting gowns, fake smiles until your cheeks ached, and the worst of it all: pretending to be happy and forcing yourself to believe that it'd work with him when you knew deep down, the relationship was doomed when you said 'yes.'

So what if you were sitting on the curb in a tattered wedding dress, the hem uneven from all the tripping as you ran across town and the veil split into two after it got caught in the branches of an elm tree, with Wonwoo?

The night is young. The last few rays of sunshine grips onto the dimming skies, headlights of passing cars in the evening traffic flicker on and make your vision spotty and bright. Girls in their twenties don tight tube tops and short skirts sway their hips down the pavement with their arms linked as they trekked down to the club. You could almost feel the grit and grease from the fast food trucks of the night market lined up across the street.

You let out a long sigh and rest your head on Wonwoo's shoulder. He peers down at you; you half expect him to look away in nonchalance, but he doesn't. You can barely make out his expression in the growing darkness: something between regret and disquietude. He seems to have words to tell and ask you on the tip of his tongue, his Adam's apple bobs as he contemplates, but a few seconds pass and his lips remain sealed.

"Why did you do it?" you finally ask. You suck in a harsh breath. "Object?"

He looks back to the street and you wait eagerly for him to say something.

But he doesn't - Wonwoo only pulls his lips in between his teeth. His gaze falls to his hands, thumbs twiddling against one another.

"Wonwoo," you try again.

Still nothing.

You sit up, your hands still interlocked around his bicep. You squeeze his arm in another attempt to get him to look at you. You were growing desperate - feeling less sure about your decision to leave your wedding with him in a flurry . . . choosing him.

"W-what are we?" you ask. Your voice falters this time, the tone much softer and less certain than prior.

And when he continues to stay silent, you begin to lose hope. Contrition grows; questions of if Kyungsoo would take you back start swirling your mind. Your hands begin to slip off his body as you lean away from him. You start gathering the tule material of your white dress in your fists instead, tears welling up in your eyes.

This was Wonwoo: your sworn enemy since the age of six - what made you think he'd really want you for you?

"Enemies," Wonwoo finally speaks, "Strictly enemies."

You pause, chewing the inside of your cheek, waiting him to explain further.

Wonwoo pushes his black-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose and clears his throat before he looks up at you finally. The right corner of his lip twitches up into a chagrin smile.

"I promised remember? When we were six and you threw my Pokeball into the pond," he explains, "I'd ruin all things good for you."

Ah . . .

Well fuck.

The first tear drips from your eyes and roll down your cheek. You stand up and step away from him, but Wonwoo follows. He tucks his hands into his khakis and he takes a moment to collect himself before speaking further.

Your fears were right and you didn't even have it in you to be mad at him right now. All those late nights over fried chicken and Diet Coke, falling asleep at his place and finding a quilt thrown over your shoulder, impromptu visits at the office - all that just to get you to open up your heart so he could rip it apart.

What a dumbass you were.

But then, Wonwoo surprises you.

He pulls out a red bread twist tie, the ends intertwined so it's shaped in circle. Wonwoo reaches for your left hand silently. He runs his thumb over your ring finger, staring momentarily before he slips on the twist tie.

It's dumb truly, but it makes your heart swell. It's not the same one, but you remember it well. You were eighteen, just right before you both left for college, sitting on the rooftop of the apartment building your families lived in. By then, your rivalry had morphed into something of frenemies and teases. Like now, he offered you a red bread twist tie as a peace offering to your prolonged rivalry - and more:

"Say, if we don't meet anyone by the time we're thirty-two, marry me?"

You didn't take it seriously then. Marriage wasn't on your mind, let alone with your sworn enemy.

And it was Wonwoo - asking for this was so . . . out-of-character for him. Must've been a joke, you had thought.

"Why thirty-two?" you had asked.

He shrugged. "Seems like a nice number."

Your eyes immediately flicker from your finger back to him.

"That includes letting you marrying other people who aren't me," Wonwoo confesses. The tips of his ears are bright red. "I-I can't believe I'm saying this, but . . . I think, um, I'm a little insane for you. Maybe even in love with you?"

You scoff tearfully, folding forward, but this time, not out of sadness. You slip your hand out of his and reach for the collar of his light blue button-up, noting how the navy blue tie was lopsided. He must've really been in a rush today if he showed up this disheveled and only prepared with a bread twist tie ring.

"You think?" you ask as you pull him close. His footing stutters and his hands latch onto your waist. The toe of his shoes are gripping onto the pavement, keeping himself from tipping over. Wonwoo pulls you closer until your chests where flush against one another. You were expecting it, but it still took you by surprise when he gives you a fleeting peck that has you chasing after him.

"I know," he mutters against your lips. "You're stuck with me."

And, you don't think you'd mind.

#AHAHAHAHAHAHA IDK WHY BUT THESE KINDS OF WONWOO STORIES ALWAYS GOT ME A LITTLE #>.<#hehehehehehehe #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo scenarios #seventeen x reader #seventeen fluff #seventeen scenarios #wonwoo angst #seventeen angst #twogyuu:writing

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sadtonight · 1 year

Text

Perfect's perfect child

Summary: surprisingly, tending a child is relatively easy. Or so he thought: innocent childish antics are endearing, until they turn disastrous!

Characters: Pomefiore;

Warnings: reader and character's child is biological, children's names are not specified, reader is gender neutral, reader is perfect but without Grim, established romantic relationships, grown up characters;

Side notes: my bestie was such a hungry child. Though no matter how much or what she ate it didn't help her grow ha ha. She's the size of an Epel if you are wondering. AGAIN FORGOT THAT GRIM EXISTS RIP.

Vil

— does Vil Schoenheit have a spouse? Yes, that's a well known fact. And apparently, completely magicless which was nothing out of the ordinary, despite some nasty fans assuming it to be unacceptable. But does the couple have children? There are rumours circulating around due to celebrity's implicit answers on the matter, but no-one knows for sure...

— the reason why your son's existence is shrouded by the veil of mystery is due to Vil wishing for your child to not be burdened by his father's reputation. It's not like he is ashamed of himself or the progress he had done: unlike Vil's father, Vil is mostly renowned by his excellently performed villainous movie roles and refined yet cold exterior that he polished even more after his graduation from Night Raven College;

— your husband successes lead to meeting many talented folk from all sorts of industries, some of which were not even directly linked to Vil's field of activities. Either way, you both were about to welcome one of those guest at your house, them being close enough to know of the existence of your son;

— speaking of the boy, the frowning youngling was currently in his room, sitting on the soft plush light purple carpet before openned dresser looming over his small frame, the inside of the furniture and it's content engulfed in darkness. Usually you or Vil helped him choose an outfit for the day, but now both of you were busy with preparations so you couldn't aid your young kid;

— he finally got up from his position and tugged on the intricate shirt until it fell down and put it on, coming up to a mirror to check himself out. The ribbons behind were displaced! The boy couldn't fix them himself so he gripped the lower part of the clothes and rushed out to get someone to help;

— despite the house not being small, the smell of delicious food was thick in the air. Among the aromas, the boy spotted the smell of plums, fruits that he deeply associated with his father Vil. The decision was made: the boy run into your shared room, not without lightly knocking on the door;

— your son saw who he was hoping to find — amethyst eyed male sitting upright before the vanity, applying purple lipstick to his lips. However, before the boy could ask his dad for help, suddenly you called out from the kitchen for Vil's urgent help, so the man has risen from the chair, leaving the lipstick tube sitting on the vanity table, excusing himself and telling the boy to wait for him here;

— with a huff, small boy walked around the room, seeking something interesting to occupy himself with in the meantime until his eyes lended on the vanity. Child climbed the chair and put his hands on the table, rolling his shoulders behind, puffing his chest out: like this, he looked like dad! Shiny funny-shaped beauty products were a no no for your son and yet he couldn't help reaching for opened purple lipstick tube;

— all types of questions were swirling in boy's mind, in particular how the lipstick would feel and of course how it tasted. He was hungry after all. First, he applied some colour, but missed the shape of his lips and in attempt to erase his doings he tried to lick lipstick off, finding out that it was extremely hard to do so. Left with no other option, the child bit on the purple stick, chewing the material which was nothing like plums like he initially thought it would taste!

— your son was about to take another bite to clarify but was lifted up and turned to face scary expressionless Vil. "Hmp, didn't I tell you to wait for me? You do know that disobedient children get eaten? And I happened to be veeery hungry now~" the last phrases came out with a smirk upon seeing the young boy pleading, frightened eyes. In truth, Vil wasn't angry at all and didn't plan to punish the troublemaker — on the contrary, his son getting interested in make up wasn't a bad sign. Though beautiful male does feel upset with the poor state of his freshly made purple lipstick....

Rook

— you wondered on multiple occasions if after graduating Night Raven College, marrying to Rook Hunt and having kids with him, would they share the same eccentricity like their father? One way to test it is to have children, and so after an extensive long while the first child was born;

— first few years you had to hold your overexcited husband by the imaginary collar since he was a little too ready to share his crafts with the infant boy who couldn't even make a full coherent sentence. The fact didn't bother Rook in the slightest: if anything, it meant that he could observe how the little one communicates! Comme ç'est excitant!

— and unsurprisingly, soon enough your son showed the interest in drawing while Rook was testing to see what arts the boy would show interest in. Apart from drawing, your husband also wished to introduce the boy to many other forms of self expression, naturally showing of the fruit of his artisticity — various collections of photos and photo albums. It was endearing to see the two sitting on the couch under the cover, your content husband, turning the pages with faintly visible nostalgia flowing in the eyes and faint smile looping up in the corners of his mouth, and your son observing every picture with curious expression that only small children could master;

— after being exposed to photos of nature, animals and beautiful figures your son's attention was drawn only to those subjects. You recall seeing crudely drawn Leona-s on the back of the colour book. The small boy would try to sneak the photo albums to his room to observe the pictures for how long he wanted, but Rook had always blew any attempt of theft. That is until one fateful day;

— it was an ordinary autumn noon, except for you being absent from home, out in the town hanging out with some guys from the college. Rook was babysitting the young boy in the living room, tweaking with one of his bows as the later who despite suffering from cold, was drawing animals on the paper at small coffee;

— blonde male's attention was diverted to his son who was tugging his clothes and pointing to the table, silently informing his father about the lack of black paper sheets. Rook got up from the sofa and hid his bow away, made the boy drink medicine and gently instructed him to go rest while he goes to buy the art supplies. It would take less than 15 minutes to do the deed, so the huntsman was sure nothing wrong would take place;

— it was already evening, so you decided to get back home already. A bus ride home, and you were standing before your doors. You rung the doorbell, expecting your cheerful husband to sweep you of your feet and ask about your meet-up yet you were met with the bewildering scene: Rook was smiling...and crying at the same time;

— turns out, he was away for some time to buy paper, and your son had managed to get his little hands on the photo albums, which huntsman hid so well that even you didn't know where they were concealed, and drew on every single picture with colourful pens. Rook wasn't angry, how could he get angry at such wonderful artistic display, but the pain of losing such precious photographs was too severe to not shed a few dozens of tears. It's still a wonder that the boy found those albums in his sickly state — hunter's intuition must run strong in Hunt's bloodline you assume!

Epel

— your fair, lilac haired husband has been suffering from his feminine outward appearance from childhood up to now, even though he deliberately drabbled in fashion industry to help promote his family's business after his time spent in Pomefiore dorm. So with the birth of a daughter, Epel hoped that maybe he could restore his manliness by appearing in father's role publicly, yet it had the opposite effect;

— you see, the little girl was such a successful mix of yours and Epel's genes that she along with both of you were swept by the media and proclaimed to be the cutest family in the whole country, even surpassing Neige's close-knit, big family. Now your husband had one more title to his name, apart from "the cutest of them all", which was good for his career but bad for his male soul;

— maybe to general public he didn't seem manlier but to you, nothing spoke more volumes than how he behaved with your daughter. Honestly, you envied the girl sometimes — she was spoilt rotten with fatherly affection she received each day! They shared similar personality vise that it felt like the saying about apple not falling far behind it's tree was made specifically for those too;

— speaking of apples, your small family has just returned from a trip to Harveston. Unsurprisingly, little girl showed great interest in articulate and farming and spent time with Epel's relatives. Before you knew, it was already time to head back to city's hustle and bustle, so your husband packed several crates of fruit and drinks (he carried each crate himself without using magic by the way!!) and you were good to go;

— in contrast to you and Epel who were exhausted, your daughter was ready to return to the country side the very next day. The images of colourful apples blending with green leaves up above only added fuel to the fire. It was early in the morning when Epel felt a small hand pat his cheek. The little child wanted to eat an apple, so the father had to crack open a wooden crate. Half asleep, with small girl pacing close by, he effortlessly opened the lid and gave a big yawn. Just one apple, he said and went back to your shared bed;

— it later in the morning, Epel felt a bigger hand patting his cheek. This time it was you who woke him up, crackling and barely contacting a full-blown laughter. Needless to say, this greatly confused your husband whom you dragged to the kitchen. What he saw though were horrors that made him twist his face into utter shock: apples scattered everywhere, all littered with bite marks as if some sort of rabbits have attacked those apples. And amongst this mess, on the chair was sitting a girl with a single half eat apple;

— Epel crouched down a little to the eye level and, in a strained voice, questioned your daughter what happened to which she with a proud smile and puffed out chest responded that she had finally found the tastiest apple! Alas, she didn't want to eat the rest of it, so she placed the leftover on the table and skipped away from the crime scene;

— turns out, the male had done something similar back when he was a child, as his mother informed you over the phone sometime later, thus he remained in the room to clean it up, salvaging those fruit that could be used for apple pies. Those two were the cutest, you thought, while admiring the photo you have sneakily taken when both of them talked.

#twisted wonderland headcanons #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #vil shoenheit x reader #rook hunt x reader #epel felmier x reader

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